


In His Image

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Abuse of Canon, Alternate Universe, Crossover, General Absurdity, M/M, Meta, Post Reichenbach, RPF, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a rather different John Watson returns to London, runs into an old friend, and meets someone new. As usual. When the subject of <i>Sherlock</i> comes up, things start getting complicated.</p><p>Originally a <i>Frankenstein</i>-inspired one-off, now a much longer fic. Thanks to those lovely people who wanted more; be careful what you wish for *g*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[**evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/), beta (entire work) and to [](http://xanthe.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://xanthe.livejournal.com/)**xanthe** , consulting Brit (first chapter). All remaining errors are tragically mine. This is the kind of thing that happens when you try to embrace canon and fandom from too many angles at once, but I swear to you this all made perfect sense in my head. Also, please do note the _fictional_ aspect of the RPF component. Thank you.

It was good to be home. Even the heart of London felt cool, green and tranquil compared to his experiences in Afghanistan. A key part of ‘civilisation’ clearly involved learning to keep most of your violence hidden behind closed doors. Here the grass was the right shade of green, not that dried out brown where you couldn’t tell whether or not it was alive or dead. The sun was gentle on his face, no one was shooting at him, and if he walked—well, hobbled—far enough along the manicured pathways there would probably be ducks. Peaceful. Possibly a little… boring, but peaceful.

“John! John Watson!”

He’d dismissed the short-sighted teacher on the park bench with a single glance as he’d gone past, which now proved to have been a mistake. Mike Stamford, his memory supplied, seconds before the man himself confirmed it. He shook Mike’s hand, smiling grimly. Slow, he was getting slow. Too many months attuned to survival had weakened whatever social skills he might have once had. His brain continued ticking over mechanically as Mike babbled away in the background—he was obviously married now; at least two children, judging from the composition and height of stains on his clothing. One large dog. Drinking a little too much; probably back on the inhaler again.

He smiled and nodded as Mike confirmed his teaching position. Still at Barts after all these years.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

  
***

  
Mike took him for a drink at the Long Bar at the Criterion, nearly deserted at this unfashionable hour. A few couples were having afternoon tea in the adjoining restaurant. They settled in with whiskies amidst the discreet lighting and gilded ceilings, not a hint of sand or dust anywhere. The red velvet seats were too soft, uncomfortable.

While he did appreciate the company, after a fashion, he fended off Mike’s questions as best he could. No, he wasn’t sure if he could afford London on his own. No, he wasn’t going to go to Harry. Thankfully, Mike never took offence at much, a trait that John had benefited from during their days at Barts, and he was grateful that Mike quickly gave up asking about his time overseas and simply talked about himself. The wife, the children, even the large dog (a Great Dane, judging from the pictures on Mike’s phone) all made their predictable conversational appearances, together with the economy, the Olympics coming up next year, and the cost of home renovations. John nodded and smiled and responded when he remembered to, his thoughts occupied with what on earth he was going to do with himself now that he was home.

“John?”

“Uh… yes, sorry?” He tried to retrieve the last minute of the conversation, but he appeared to have already consigned it to deletion.

Mike punched him on the arm good-naturedly for his inattention.

“I said, I’d better be getting back.”

“Oh, right. Cheers. Thanks for the…”

A short blast of something vaguely Latin-American-sounding cut him off. Mike reached for his phone apologetically, indicated he’d be back in a moment, and excused himself to answer it.

John picked up his train of thought right where he’d left off—the question of what to do with himself. The obvious thing would be to find another job in medicine, but general practice was so incredibly boring. So boring that a war zone had sounded attractive by comparison. Half the time he’d wanted to diagnose patients with something exotic and absurd just to see if they’d notice. The obvious solution was further study, but he hadn’t the temperament for it. He’d barely made it through medical school—addictions tended to run in the family—and he’d trained as a GP only because it was the shortest specialty going.

He’d read widely, far more than most of his peers, and he was fairly sure he would do well as a consultant, an infectious disease specialist perhaps. But you couldn’t just set yourself up as one of those; you needed the right pieces of paper. And he wasn’t sure he’d survive another god knows how many years in training and study pretending to listen to idiots who knew less than he did. At least in general practice he only dealt with ignorance from one side.

He looked up as Mike returned, grinning.

“Hey, you’re not up to anything tonight, are you?”

“Uh… why?”

In truth, he found the assumption rather insulting. He had… plans. Most of which involved grabbing a curry for dinner, thinking about starting that online blog his therapist had suggested, sitting hopelessly in front of a blank screen for a while, giving up on the idea as a bad joke and finishing the night off with getting drunk. It might not sound like much, but it had _structure_ to it.

“Maddy’s come down with something,” Mike said. “It’s probably just a cold.”

 _Or possibly_ _Marburg_ _hemorrhagic fever_ , John thought wistfully.

“Oh,” was all he said.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Mike added reassuringly, although John hadn’t asked. “Just a bit off, wants her mum, you know how it is. But it means I’ve got a spare ticket to this show tonight, do you want to come? Mate of mine from Harrow’s in it.”

“A show? You mean the theatre.”

“Of course I meant the theatre. Where have you been? Oh, right, don’t answer that. But it’s quite a big deal at the moment, impossible to get tickets for. Alex is really disappointed. But I told her I’d bumped into an old friend who could probably use the distraction. Meaning you. What do you say?”

“What is it?”

“Frankenstein. But a new version, not the one with bolts in. Ben gave me the tickets, said it’d probably be right up my alley since I was teaching at Barts. Cutting up dead bodies for a living and all.” Mike stopped short, probably realising that this wasn’t the best enticement for John in his current state of mind, and added weakly, “He was just trying to be funny.”

“No, it’s fine.” John smiled. “Sure. Love to come. Your mate any good?”

“Nah, he’s rubbish, isn’t he?” Mike laughed. “I keep forgetting you’ve been away. He was in this show on the BBC last year, playing a brilliant detective. Went down very well. And now he’s in this.”

“So what part’s he got?”

“Now you see, that’s another interesting question…”

  
***

  
The murmur of the audience bubbled around them as they settled into their seats, which were excellent, as John supposed they should be, given the source. As it turned out, Mike’s friend was scheduled to be playing Frankenstein’s monster, labelled in the program as the Creature. The two lead actors alternated the part, Mike had explained to a rather bemused John. To pass the time before curtain—not that there _was_ one of those—he took a glance through the program Mike had purchased for Alex. None of the faces seemed particularly familiar, although he did remember _Trainspotting_. Mike’s friend was the other lead, though.

“That’s not his _real_ name, right?” John couldn’t help asking.

Mike grinned. “Well, he had the same one all the way through school.”

“Must’ve been sheer hell. Not to mention the name tags.”

There were other distractions as well. Someone producing the play had apparently thought it a good idea to set up an enormous church bell that swung over the stalls, a rope hanging invitingly down within reach of people making their way to their seats. At varying intervals a huge clang reverberated around the theatre as the rope was pulled. It was surreal, not to mention a little annoying. On stage, a translucent globe pulsed, with someone clearly already inside, moving.

Mike nudged John with his elbow. “Bet that’s Ben.”

John nodded. “Looks uncomfortable.”

The lights faded slowly to black, and the play began.

  
***

  
Afterwards, they lingered at one of the bars with a view of the Thames, where John took advantage of the opportunity to continue with at least a small part of his original plan, the one involving a few drinks. Not that was about to get drunk in public; he left that kind of behaviour to Harry. But it was pleasant to just blur the edges a little.

They’d settled in and exchanged a few words about the play, and then thankfully Mike had left him in relative peace, saying he’d promised to ring home _immediately_ and tell Alex all about it. John stared out at the water and sipped his drink while Mike rhapsodised on the phone beside him, recounting every twist and turn of the play, every thought or feeling he’d had during it. From the rise and fall of Alex’s voice as she asked Mike question after question, she was thoroughly enjoying the discussion. In a way, John was too; it was noisy, but strangely soothing.

The play had been… interesting. He wasn’t sure he’d enjoyed it, as such, but he’d been impressed. While John couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d been to the theatre, the experience nowadays was certainly a little different from his childhood memories of sitting in an audience while a man in drag threw boiled sweets at him. Since then it had clearly evolved into a sophisticated thing of light and sound and spectacle, dazzling to behold.

It had also helped that he’d read the source novel in his youth, although his memories of it were hazy. The theme of interfering in things you didn’t fully understand and having to suffer the consequences resonated with him, though. It was Afghanistan all over again. He wondered if it would ever truly be ended. The tableau in the final scene—where the Creature cradled Victor Frankenstein in his arms, amidst dry ice that smelled like smoke—had brought back the sounds of machine-gun fire. It had given him chills.

Although when Mike had asked him what he’d thought of his friend’s performance, he’d had no idea what to say. What did he know about these things? Acting wasn’t something _real_ , at least not to him. Spinning fantasies for a wide-eyed audience. The dust, the heat, the dying— _those_ things were real. But he conceded it took a certain bravery to display oneself on stage before a thousand people every night, to be stripped raw and bare in front of them, both physically and emotionally. Not quite the same thing as charging headlong into enemy fire, but courageous nonetheless. What kind of a person would willingly do a thing like that?

He looked at his watch. When Mike had finished talking, apparently he would find out.

  
***

  
“Come on,” Mike said as they walked out onto the forecourt, where even now there were still people milling around. Mike moved slightly ahead at a considerate pace. “Let’s go down the road a bit, I’ve booked a cab.”

John negotiated the uneven surfaces carefully, the walking stick still new enough to irritate the skin of his palm. Mike drew out his mobile as they reached the side road, waiting for the approach text, which duly arrived with a sedate chime. Two minutes later, a black cab came past and Mike waved him down, confirming their booking through the open window. John got in first, scrambling awkwardly along to the far side of the padded seat, and Mike slid in beside.

“Three stops, last one at Kilburn, right?” the driver asked. “Where’s your third party?”

“Go down Cottesloe,” Mike said. “He’s at the stage door.”

To John he added, “Usually he takes the bike, but I said tonight I’d rescue him.”

“From…?”

There was a small crowd gathered on the footpath as they drew up nearby, many of them wielding cameras and pens. John thought he recognised Mike’s friend in the middle of one of the groups, although he wasn’t entirely sure. The lighting in the area was dim, and he’d only had that one make-up-free glimpse from the program, after all.

“Ben!” Mike had alighted and was walking towards the man John had singled out, waving. “Ride’s here.”

“Mike, hi. Okay, I really have to go now, sorry. No, sorry. I really have to…”

The apologies were loud enough to carry, and John rolled his eyes in the privacy of the cab. It really wasn’t that difficult, surely. But apparently it was, because it was a full five minutes before Mike and his friend returned to the car. Ben took the fold-down seat in front of Mike, his long legs stretched out at an angle between them. John examined him closely for a minute until the door shut and the interior light went off.

“Hello,” Ben said brightly, when it became obvious John wasn’t going to make the effort. John nodded and echoed his greeting vaguely. He could almost see the mental shrug as Ben turned his attention back to Mike. “Alex couldn’t make it, then?”

 _Oh, I can see why they made_ you _a detective,_ John thought sourly, knowing he was being unfair, not caring. _No, she’s just grown four inches and had gender reassignment surgery._

“Maddy needed her more than you did,” Mike said. “She sends her love.”

“So, what did you think?”

“Brilliant. You were really good. Jonny, too. Although you were better, of course.”

Ben smiled. “That’s not what I meant. I mean the story, the way it was done.”

“That was alright, too. The bit with the train was pretty impressive.”

“I think…” John said, although he hadn’t been asked, exactly, “that you need to get better prosthetic adhesive, or you’re going to end up with permanent scarring.”  
  
Interestingly, Ben responded with curiosity rather than hostility, which in John’s experience was by far the likelier outcome. He rubbed his forehead with a rueful hand. “Well, the glue does sting a bit, it's true.”  
  
“Also, if you keep doing the Creature that way night after night, you’re going to end up with problems in your radiocarpal joints, teres minor muscle, Achilles tendon and the sacroiliac region. Amongst other things.”  
  
“And in English that would mean...?”

“You’re going to end up with strains, tears, or other damage here, here, here and _here_.” John leaned forward, touching him lightly in turn at the right wrist joint followed by areas around his left shoulder blade, the back of his left ankle and a region in his lower back.

“Ouch,” Ben said, leaning back into the seat after John’s demonstration. “You know, you’re absolutely right. Two weeks in and I’m feeling it worst there already. Who have you been talking to?”

John shrugged. “No one. It’s obvious from the way you move on stage.”  
  
Ben shot Mike an incredulous look. “Obvious. Really?”

“He’s a doctor as well,” Mike explained. “Rather a good one, even if he does keep a bit to himself. Been off in the wars until just now, though. Afghanistan. Doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“I am right here, you know,” John said mildly.

“Yeah, but I know how you are.”

“And how is that?”

“Like that.”

Ben was still looking at him like he’d pulled off some magic trick, complete with doves. “Anything else?”

“Not really. Only that you smoke too much and your girlfriend left you fairly recently. Probably explains the smoking.”

“What? Where the hell did you hear that?”

It was clear from Ben’s sputtering that he was only just holding on to the last vestiges of politeness for Mike’s sake. John had been so caught up in his train of thought that he’d forgotten that there were lines people preferred you didn’t cross. He really did try not to put people’s backs up too much, but sometimes things just… slipped out.

“You do smoke too much. It’s obvious from the vocal strain, the stains on your fingers and your general agitation.”

He would have been happy to leave it there, but Ben’s furious glare spurred him on. And maybe the drinks he’d had earlier had something to do with it, as well.

“Oh, you mean the girlfriend. Did I get it wrong? Boyfriend? Seems unlikely.”

“I thought we’d both agreed not to—Mike, how did you find out? And did you really think it was appropriate to _broadcast_ it?”

Mike looked like he was regretting this entire journey. “I have no idea what _either_ of you are talking about. Is everything okay? Did something happen with Olivia?”

“Olivia. I thought so. Girlfriend.”

“Don’t take it personally, Ben. He gets like this sometimes, particularly when he’s had a few. Just ignore him, he’s used to it.”

“Someone must have hacked my phone, then. Although I can’t see why they’d bother. Are you working for the papers or something?” This last was directed firmly at John.

John sighed. This kind of hostility was _exactly_ why he tried to keep his mouth shut most of the time.

“There’s a slight thinning of your left lower middle finger indicating long-term constriction of a ring, which would require quite a commitment considering you’d need to remove and replace it frequently in the course of your work. That would imply a sentimental attachment, probably a long-term relationship, not yet ready for the next step. Your shoes and watch are less than three months old, and, judging by the rest of your outfit, purchased for you. Intimate purchases most likely to be made by a caring partner.”

“What do you mean, ‘judging by the rest of my outfit’? What’s wrong with it?”

John ignored him. “So you’ve taken the ring off, but you’re still wearing the things she bought for you, so she left you, and within the last few months. Why would she do that, after all this time together? Men who partner up while in their twenties are much more likely to do so with a woman their own age, which would make right around now a make-or-break time for marriage and children. Which would mean that either you just found out you can’t have them or more likely don’t want to, what with your career taking off.”

“You’re completely wrong about that. It was _her_ choice, _her_ career.”

“All right. And the rest?”

Ben ducked his head for a moment and then suddenly became very interested in the passing scenery. His hand brushed against his mouth in a nervous gesture. The silence was immense.

“Oh,” Mike said finally. “Look, I’m really sorry. I had no idea, honestly.”

“No, it’s fine.” Ben turned back from the window. Now, he just looked tired. “He’s quite right. Olivia moved out a month ago. You’ve just heard what happened.”

Mike nodded. Another stretch of silence, finally broken by Ben.

“So, where did you find _him_?”

“We trained at Barts together. Didn’t I say?”

“No, I don’t think you did.”

John thought it best to keep pretending he wasn’t listening, but he was nevertheless aware that Ben was looking at him again.

“That was still rather… amazing though.”

Noting the shift in tone, John risked a glance across, and it was clear that Ben had managed to overcome his recent discomfort and was now absorbed in other thoughts. He addressed John with fresh enthusiasm.

“I don’t know if Mike’s told you, but I’m also in this series on TV where I’m playing a detective. A really _brilliant_ detective. He could infer the Atlantic from… a drop of water.”

John nodded.

“And it’s a great character, but I didn’t think _real_ people could actually do things like that,” Ben went on. “I’ve never seen anything like it. So I’d really like to talk to you for a bit, if you don’t mind. Find out more about how you think, what your life’s been like, all of that. Do you both want to come back to mine for a bit? I’ll be up for hours yet.”

Mike appeared amused by the turn in the conversation, aware that the invitation wasn’t really directed at him. He shook his head. “I’m late enough as it is. You know.”

John did likewise. “No, I can’t, I’m renting rooms at the moment—I’ve got a landlady. I told her I was going out, but she’s got some bee in her bonnet about a midnight curfew.”

“It’s only quarter to,” Ben said. “If you can stand some company I’ll promise her to be out by half-past or so.”

John was about to make his position clearer when the driver’s voice broke into the discussion. “Almost to Marylebone. What’s the exact address?”

“Baker Street,” John called forward. “221B.”

A few minutes later he reached for his walking stick, preparing to alight. He noticed Ben giving him an expectant look, and realised he still hadn’t replied.

“Oh, all right then,” he said ungraciously, as the cab pulled up. “You’ll have to talk Mrs Hudson around, though.”

Farewells and platitudes ensued, and then John found himself on the street with Ben, trying to find his keys. As fond as he was of his landlady, he’d prefer it if he could slip by her just this once. What had he been thinking, agreeing to this? He supposed it was nice to have someone actually show an interest in his quirks for once, rather than just being annoyed by them.

“By the way,” Ben was saying by his elbow. “I’ve just realised I don’t actually know your name.”

John looked up at him, finding the height differential a little intimidating. But Ben’s expression was warm and genuine, and John had always appreciated people who didn’t hold grudges for too long. Maybe it would be amusing talking to him, after all.

“It’s John,” he said, smiling. “Doctor John Watson.”


	2. Chapter 2

Taking exaggerated care not to let the door bang open, John peered into the shared hallway. The landing light had considerately been left on, but all else felt still and quiet. There was no light visible from either of the doors that led into Mrs Hudson’s rooms. Excellent. John led the way, and waited a moment for Ben to make it inside, noting that Ben took deliberate care to shut the door as softly as it had been opened.

“The third, fourth, seventh and twelfth stairs creak,” John advised, and promptly took off down the hall. He manoeuvred the stairs in deft silence despite having to contend with the walking stick, and only turned back when he reached his front door. Ben was just stepping up onto the landing behind him, having managed to successfully negotiate his way upstairs without treading on any of the suspect boards. He was, however, giggling softly.

“Shhh.” John frowned at him.

“Sorry,” Ben said, although he certainly didn’t seem sorry, from the sounds he was still making. “It’s been a long time since I've had to sneak in anywhere after hours. Is your landlady really that terrifying?”

“Not in the slightest,” John said, with only the barest hint of a smile. “I just wanted to see if you could count.”

He turned away, then, and opened the door, belatedly contemplating the condition of his flat. It wasn’t something he gave a damn about himself, but he was nevertheless aware of how shabby the premises might seem to someone used to better. Then he decided it was hardly his problem. Ben had essentially invited himself; he could take it or leave it. John led him in with a mock-grand wave of his hand, switching on the interior light as he did so.

“Oh,” Ben said, but he didn’t sound disparaging, merely surprised. “This is…”

“’Bare’ is probably the word you’re looking for. Or ‘spartan’, perhaps,” John said, trying not to sound defensive. It had all the essentials as far as he was concerned – some basic items of furniture, a laptop, a television, a couple of lamps – but there was very little in the way of ornaments or books and the walls were entirely undecorated. “Probably not quite what you’re used to.”

“Not at all,” Ben said, sounding annoyed for the first time since John had brought up his girlfriend. “I was going to say it’s very…tidy. My place is a dump. I can’t find a thing when I’m in a hurry.”

“Yes, I can tell,” John said.

“Why are you looking at my clothes again?”

John thought that that was really a question that remained safest unanswered and headed into the kitchen, leaving the walking stick leaning against one of the cupboards. Indoors, it just got in the way.

“I still have a lot of things in storage.” He had no idea why he was telling Ben this. “I’m still not sure whether I’ll be able to afford this place on my own, yet.”

“Is that a real skull?”

Ben had removed his scarf and bag and had gravitated towards the mantelpiece, no doubt because it was the only place in the room that held a few items of personal significance. As well as the skull, there was a wood-framed photo of John and Harry in happier times, and a pile of mostly junk mail, affixed through the middle by his pocket-knife.

“Yes, of course it is.”

“May I?” Ben’s fingers hovered a couple of inches above it, not quite touching.

“Sure,” John said. “Tea, or something a bit stronger?”

“Whatever you’re having.” Ben had picked up the skull and seemed to be fascinated by it, turning it over in his hands. “How did you come by this? If that’s not too personal a question.”

John closed the cupboard containing a single forlorn box of English Breakfast, and opened the one containing the alcohol instead. That one was much better stocked, and he reached for the bottle of Scotch and two random glasses. He only had three, and none of them matched.

“Friend of mine left it to me. He’d willed his body to science, but after he murdered ten people no one wanted it. Whiskey all right?”

The skull was set back down on the mantelpiece with a highly entertaining mix of swiftness and caution. John grinned at the startled look Ben shot in his direction.

“Really? And yes, that would be lovely, thanks.”

“Almost,” John said. “You see, the thing about that skull - which actually _did_ belong to a friend, by the way - is that it makes excellent company, because not only does it never talk back, it doesn’t automatically believe everything I tell it, either. You’ve spent way too much time in fantasyland.”

“Ah.”

Ben looked more bemused than annoyed, and John thought that he really was taking it all very well. Which either made him particularly intelligent or particularly stupid. Walking back into the living area, John handed him his glass before settling in the other armchair with his own. He’d already had a drink with Mike in the afternoon, and those couple of beers at the theatre, but he thought just one more would be fine; after all, he had a guest. Through sheer force of habit he swirled the whiskey briefly in the glass and then drank it off in a single swallow. Ben had only just begun to sip slowly at his, studying John intently over the top of it. For some reason Ben’s steady regard irritated him, even though he knew it was the primary reason Ben was here, not to mention that fact that John would have done exactly the same thing in his place. Most of the time John didn’t care too much what people thought of him, but part of him suddenly longed to be recognised as a person, not simply as some interesting character study. No matter. Ben would be gone soon enough.

With that thought, John glanced briefly at his watch. “So, was that all eccentric enough for you? What kind of detective are you playing, anyway?”

The question did manage to successfully break the intensity of Ben’s focus, and his eyes brightened as he leaned forward and set down his glass on the coffee table, having barely touched it. John couldn’t help but spare it a single covetous glance.

“Oh, he’s an absolutely fascinating character. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and the series is based on this obscure set of stories originally written by a man called Doyle, way back in the late 1800s, Victorian-era stuff. He was a doctor, too, actually, isn’t that interesting? Brilliant work, terribly underrated, but someone at the BBC thought it might make…John? All you all right?”

Ben peered at him worriedly, and John did his best to wave a reassuring hand at him, but in truth John suddenly felt very far from all right. His heart was suddenly beating far faster than usual and he could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead even though the rest of him was suddenly cold. _Panic attack_ , his mind coldly informed him, even as one hand clutched at the arm of the chair in an attempt to steady himself against the wave of dizziness that threatened him. He’d known that he was at high risk for PTSD, but he’d also been arrogant enough to assume that that kind of thing was for the weak-minded and that it would never happen to him. The worst part was the inexplicable way it had arisen out of nowhere, from nothing at all. He forced himself to take deep breaths, to calm down.

“No, don’t, please. I’m fine,” he managed to say, seeing that Ben had already retrieved his mobile and was obviously trying to evaluate whether he should make an emergency call.

“Are you sure?” Ben was next to him now, crouched down beside the chair. “Tell me what to do.”

John shook his head, begging his patience silently while he took a few more deep breaths. Embarrassed now, he smiled a little sheepishly at Ben.

“Sorry,” he said. “Like Mike told you, I’ve been…abroad. My therapist said this kind of thing might happen, I just didn’t believe her. Please, just sit down, go on.”

Ben eyed him with lingering concern, but nodded and backed away obediently and sat down again.

“So, you were saying.” John tentatively loosened his grip on the chair, feeling slightly more in control of himself now. “Sherlock…Holmes?” Suddenly, there it was again, that breath-stealing panic, the sensation of being untethered from reality. However now that he knew the unnerving feeling for what he was, he was better able to keep it in check. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

“No,” Ben said, “Most people haven’t – he’s not really well-known like, you know, Hercules Poirot or Adrian Sherrinford. Doyle had only written a handful of stories about Holmes when he died in 1894. Murdered by a jealous rival, so the story goes, although that does sound a little overly dramatic. But the stories are just terrific – I like to think that we might have even sparked a revival now that people have had a chance to appreciate them again. Really progressive too, considering the time. For example, Holmes is married to a beautiful woman, Irene, but rather than being some demure Victorian helpmeet, she acts as his assistant and goes all out with him in solving the cases. Last series, Lara – she plays Irene – kept complaining that we both have to shoot guns and scale walls, but it’s only ever her who has to do it wearing a corset. She’s campaigning for Irene to disguise herself as a man more often. Or for me to start wearing corsets.” Ben laughed.

John smiled weakly. Although the initial panic had passed, the nagging sense of wrongness hadn’t quite gone away. Again he found himself glancing at Ben’s whiskey glass. Bad idea. He pushed himself off the chair instead. “Think I’ll make that tea after all.”

He could feel Ben watching him as he set the kettle to boil. How disappointing it must be for him, expecting a genius and getting an incipient alcoholic prone to panic attacks. Yet there was a strangeness in John’s own reactions as well. With anyone else he would have wanted to be rid of them as quickly as possible after his moment of weakness. But it felt somehow right to him that Ben should be there, burbling on about his television detectives. It really didn’t make a whole lot of sense, at least not on any rational basis. Maybe it was simply that he _was_ lonely, and that Ben was surprisingly nice. Unthreatening. Or maybe, now that John had had a chance to examine him more closely, perhaps it was simply that on a purely aesthetic level he really was quite fascinating to look at, his face an odd combination of sharp angles and soft curves when not overwhelmed by theatrical makeup. However, these things bore little relevance to the situation, and he quickly dismissed the thoughts from his mind.

When he brought the tea back into the room, having already added milk to both mugs – not based on anything except laziness and a disinclination to ask – he found Ben examining his things again. Ben thanked him for the tea, and then indicated the picture.

“Is that your…Irene?”

“That’s my sister. Harry.”

“Sister. Oh.” Ben looked closer, frowning in concentration. “I suppose I can see the resemblance. Unless you’re having me on again and she’s really your great-aunt Mabel.”

John chuckled despite himself, and took a sip of his tea. Much better idea. “No, she really _is_ my sister.”

“So do you currently have someone else, then? A girlfriend? Or…boyfriend?”

The question caused John's improved mood to dissipate as quickly as it had come on. He hadn’t minded about the skull, but he did mind this. “Now, _that’s_ a bit personal.”

Surprisingly, Ben didn’t back down the way he’d expected. “I think it’s a fair question, under the circumstances,” he said, sounding polite but firm, and John realised then he hadn’t entirely been forgiven for his deduction about Ben’s girlfriend having left him.

John sat back in the armchair, cradling his mug in his hands. “Yeah, look, I’m sorry about that. I know it was a bit tactless, especially in front of Mike. I just wasn’t thinking at the time. Well, not about how it might _sound_ , anyway.”

“All right.” However, Ben was still watching him steadily, waiting.

“Fine. To answer your question, no. The whole relationship thing. It’s…not really my area.”

“So you’re unattached,” Ben said, with the trace of a smile. Despite the circumstances, his tone was light, not vindictive. “Just like me.”

“Yes, although in my case it’s more of a permanent condition. Which makes me a pretty terrible model for your…character.”

“Not at all,” Ben said quickly. “You’ve been…this has been fascinating. Really. So how did you end up in Afghanistan?”

“Boredom, mostly. Seeing the same patients every day with the same complaints. I also thought it'd be nice to see a little more of the world outside England, and it seemed like the best way of doing it.”

“Most people would have just taken a nice holiday somewhere.”

John shrugged. “At least it was _real_. And the work was challenging enough in its own way - it wasn’t very difficult, but you had to be quick, and you had to be _sure_. Sometimes it was exciting enough just to survive another day.”

“You weren’t frightened?”

“Terrified, a lot of the time. Although to be honest I think I’d rather go back there than doing…the kind of thing you did tonight, for example.”

“Oh, I’m quite often terrified, too,” Ben said, and they shared a rueful laugh together. It felt warm, companionable, and made John feel for a moment as though Ben actually understood at least something of what it was like. The reckless thrill of working without a safety net. There really was an underlying toughness to Ben’s personality, as outwardly gentle as he seemed.

“Then you ended up back in London because…you were shot?” Ben asked him cautiously, gauging his reactions. John nodded, and Ben went on thoughtfully. “You hold the walking stick in your right hand, so that would normally imply the injury was to your left leg.”

“Very good,” John said. “The kind of brilliant deduction your television detective would be proud of. Except that it was in the shoulder, actually.” He smiled thinly at Ben’s bewilderment. “Life is more complicated than television.”

“Apparently so.” Ben was looking at him dubiously.

“So, when are you filming your series again?” John asked, anxious to change the subject. “What’s it called?”

"It's just called _Sherlock_. Very original. I finish up at the National in May, and then we’re starting up pretty much straight after that.”

By this time John had searched his memory, and was positive he had never read Doyle’s stories nor so much as heard of his creation before tonight, but even hearing Ben say the name managed to send a pang of some unnameable emotion through him. Which really made no sense whatsoever, because Sherlock was probably a perfectly decent bloke, for an eccentric genius detective. Not to mention with the minor aspect of being _fictional_. With some difficulty, John wrenched his thoughts away from Ben's upcoming role and back to his current one.

“If that’s the case, you’d better stop throwing yourself around so much on stage or you won’t be in any condition to do any kind of filming.”

“It comes with the part,” Ben said, matter-of-factly.

Which John understood to mean that he was going to steadfastly ignore every single thing that John had told him. For once John didn’t mind. He rather understood that kind of stubbornness as well.

“Well…I suppose I’ll look out for you on telly, then.” Although he hadn’t meant it to be, it came out like a dismissal.

“Yes, I’ve kept you, I’m so sorry,” Ben said, standing now. John felt himself being studied again, and he thought that Ben didn’t look very sorry at all. There was something in his gaze that suddenly made John not mind so much being looked at, either.

“Not at all,” John said automatically.

A slight wrinkle of concern broke through Ben’s expression. “And you’re _sure_ you’re all right?”

“Fine. I don’t know what came over me, earlier.”

Which was something of a lie, of course, but there was no point in John looking crazier than he already was. He stood up and took their now-empty mugs to the kitchen. Ben came up behind him with the glasses they had used, swallowing down the rest of his whiskey before leaving the empty glass on the draining board. That, too, was interesting; John could have sworn that Ben hadn’t actually wanted it. On top of his almost tangible energy, Ben seemed to radiate heat; John could feel it from where he stood in front of the sink as Ben came briefly into his proximity and then went back to the living room to collect his things.

“Thanks again for, well, letting me intrude,” Ben said. He was standing in front of the door, with his scarf already around his neck and the black messenger bag slung across his body, looking uncertain. “I could…I could send you a DVD of the first series. If you’d like. To say thank you. You can laugh at me to your heart’s content.”

John smiled. “All right, then. I’d like that.”

“Great.”

There was a long pause, during which John realised that he really was going to say it out loud. “And when you really do hurt yourself rolling around on that stage, feel free to come over after and I’ll say I told you so.”

“Really? You’re usually awake at this hour?”

“Usually,” John said quietly. “Anyway, there’s a separate buzzer.”

“All right, I might just…do that,” Ben said, his eyes bright. “Or I could buy you lunch sometime. Most days I don’t have to go in until four or five.”

“Lunch?”

“You know, the meal between breakfast and dinner? You must have heard of it.”

“Oh, right,” John said. “I’ve been a bit busy trying to find work, and do…other things. Sometimes I forget about…food.” He didn’t bother mentioning that alcohol occasionally supplied a fair proportion of his daily energy requirements, if not the nutritional ones.

“Right, I’ll be off then,” Ben said, when the silence became awkward again. John nodded and brushed past him slightly to open the door. When he stepped aside, Ben looked at him for a moment as though he wanted to add something further, but seemed to think better of it, and instead shook John’s hand in a gesture of farewell. John waited until he heard the soft click of the front door closing, and then turned off the light and went back inside.

He made his way back to the sink to wash up, stepping around his walking stick on the way. Picking up one of the glasses, he smiled as he suddenly realised he hadn’t heard a single creak from the stairs, all the way down.


	3. Chapter 3

When everything had been rinsed and left to dry on the draining board, John drifted back out to the living room, where his laptop sat on a table between the large sash windows. He flipped open the lid and waited until the screen showed his would-be blog, exactly as he’d left it, still empty save for the date heading. For a while he just sat there and looked at it, rubbing his hands together nervously. Then he typed:

_Went to see Frankenstein at the NT with Mike._

He managed a couple more innocuous paragraphs that said nothing and meant even less, intended mainly to placate his therapist. In his head he filled in the more interesting parts, all the things he had no intention of writing. Meeting Ben, bringing him back to the flat, the intensity of his gaze, the crooked smile as he’d taken his leave. Trivial details; no need to put any of them on public display. John published his entry and reached out as though to shut the lid, but in the back of his mind the strange but unmistakeable impact of Ben’s detective character was still nagging at him. Immediately he reached for the keyboard again and opened a new tab. It was past one am, and time he probably should be getting to bed, but he felt he really needed to know just a little bit more. John’s hands shook slightly as he typed:

_Sherlock Holmes_

The character might have been relatively obscure, but his name still produced close to a quarter of a million hits: a Wikipedia page, a Britannica entry, a number of articles concerning his recent television revival, and a host of media-related and fan sites that seemed mostly concerned with the BBC adaptation. John scanned the Wikipedia article first, which confirmed what Ben had told him about Holmes. Creation of Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle, physician and writer (1859-1894). Brilliant and eccentric detective, tobacco smoker, cocaine addict. Wife Irene, record-keeper and assistant. No children. The article was fairly brief, but included a couple of black-and-white line drawings depicting Holmes and Irene from the original stories. While the character was indeed tall and thin, John failed to see much of a resemblance between the long, stern lines of his face and Ben’s open demeanour. Although if Ben could perform something like the Creature, it was probably churlish to doubt his ability to portray Holmes. There was a single paragraph concerning the BBC series that mentioned Ben’s name. The hyperlink indicated he had his own Wikipedia entry to investigate, but that could wait until later.

John clicked on a link at the bottom, the one that led to the official BBC site.

At the first sight of the publicity photo, the wave of panic swept over him again, worse than ever before. It was really too simplistic to describe it as panic; it was a whole range of emotions, so many he couldn’t begin to name them individually. He put both hands flat on the table and concentrated on breathing, without once taking his eyes from the page. Ben was almost unrecognisable in the picture, his hair dyed almost black and styled in short waves. He glared out from the screen in a black suit under a dark wool cape, wearing a top hat and holding a smoking cigar. Beside him stood Irene, slightly angled away, with a hand on his shoulder. She wore a demurely corseted dress in ivory lace, but she also had a black derby on her head, and her beautiful eyes were sparkling and impudent as she challenged the camera. On closer inspection she appeared to be holding a pistol in her other hand, hidden behind a fold of her dress.

John’s vision had begun to blur, and as the picture swam in and out of focus, he thought he saw – _something_. Not quite a vision, not quite a memory. It was Ben, and yet it wasn’t; he’d taken off the hat, his hair was slightly longer, and most noticeably he had on a navy blue scarf that wrapped around his neck, the colour making his eyes blaze even more fiercely as he stared at John, his expression unreadable. It stayed with him for a moment, and then it was gone.

When the dizzy feeling had passed, he shut the laptop quickly and sat for a while with his head in his hands. He really was losing it. It was probably something he should tell Ella about, but something in him recoiled from the thought. Given enough time, it would go away, surely. In the meantime, he could deal with it on his own. Still, he wished he could understand _why_. The onset was nothing he could have expected – true, he had been drinking, a little, but apart from that there was nothing stressful he could think of that might have set it off; he had been fine all through the play, and nothing since then had been remotely distressing. Just a television character with a strange name, and an actor with an even stranger one. Well, maybe that was it. Given that John himself had the plainest name in the world, he clearly just needed to stay away from people with unfeasibly exotic ones. The ridiculousness of the thought made him smile, and he began to feel better. It gave him enough strength to finally get up and go to bed.

Still, he slept badly that night, and his dreams were filled with bright glances and dark alleyways and the pursuit of a fleeing, elusive figure.

***

After that initial blog entry, John left the next few days blank. Occasionally he made a token effort and sat there, staring at the screen, resisting the urge to fill it with either the mind-numbing trivia of his actual existence – _Went to Tesco’s, attempted to buy milk, two tomatoes and a wilted lettuce, fought with the chip-and-pin machine, emerged victorious_ – or surreal nonsense which would serve only to annoy his therapist – _They’re watching me. Street cameras on corners swivel when I walk past, telephones ring. When I pick up, nobody answers._ Mostly he poked around online, went to the library, took uneventful walks in the park, or scanned job advertisements without much enthusiasm. He applied for a handful of positions he thought might suit, based mainly on their proximity to Baker Street and flexibility of their conditions rather than any particular desire to join their fine establishments. During the days he drank water and juice and tea.

Five days and one therapy appointment later, he arrived home to find a small package on the downstairs fireplace mantel in the hallway that served as a letter drop. While Mrs Hudson had made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t his housekeeper, she was happy enough to collect the mail and separate John’s correspondence from her own. What little there was of it. Today there was nothing else save the package, and John leaned his walking stick against the wall so that he could examine it using both hands. It was really only a small black plastic bag bearing a store logo, with the top folded over, not even taped. When John opened it, it contained a DVD case, still sealed in plastic, and a slip of paper bearing a mobile number. It didn’t take a genius to work out who it was from.

He looked up as Mrs Hudson bustled out from her rooms, clearly having heard him come in. “Hello, dear. How was your appointment?”

“Oh, fine thanks. The usual. A lot of talking.”

Closer now, she caught him by the sleeve of his jacket and tutted at him. “You’re not wearing enough, it’s cold out there. You need a decent coat.”

John murmured something non-committal, but she had already moved on.

“Good, I see you’ve got your mail, then. A man on a bike dropped that off for you earlier. I thought it was a bit strange; he looked like one of those couriers, but there’s no address on it. How did he know it was for you?”

“I think it might have been a…friend.”

“Nice to see you up to catching up with people at last. You need to let them in a bit more.”

John smiled, having never told Mrs Hudson he had already done exactly that.

“No, not someone I knew from before. I just met him, actually. That night I saw _Frankenstein_. One of Mike’s friends.”

“He seems to have taken quite a fancy to you, buying you presents already.”

So she’d taken a peek inside the bag, then. Of course she had. John thought briefly of pulling out the DVD and trying to get her to recall the face of the ‘courier’, purely for his own amusement, but decided against it. It would only bring on a new round of interrogation.

“I don’t think it’s anything like that, Mrs Hudson. I think it’s more likely he just had a few spare copies lying around. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for trying, dear.”

John picked up his walking stick again and climbed the stairs, the package tucked under his arm.

***

It was only four in the afternoon, with the remainder of the day stretching endlessly in front of him like the desert sands, and the flat felt barer than ever. John started the kettle going before unwrapping the DVD, which upon closer inspection did actually bear the slightly sticky residue of a price tag on the outer plastic. What kind of person purchased a DVD of his own show? There were other plausible explanations, of course, but that one seemed the most likely, especially given the pristine condition of the bag it had arrived in. John shook his head, amused by the thought.

Before opening the box, he lingered a while over the front cover, which bore the same publicity photo of Sherlock and Irene that he’d seen on the website. He ran his fingers lightly over it, cataloguing the strength of his own reactions. The unease was definitely still there, but today it was much more bearable than before. Maybe it was that now he was more able to clearly identify that it really was only Ben on the cover – his distinctive eyes, his cheekbones, the shape of his mouth – and not some exotic doppelganger drawn from the depths of his imagination. He sincerely hoped that this understanding signalled an end to the mysterious workings of his subconscious, and settled down with his tea in front of the television with a small measure of satisfaction. The DVD held three ninety-minute episodes, the first on the list titled: _A Sojourn in Scarlet_.

The show was beautifully filmed, the atmosphere of the Victorian era impeccably recreated with its cobblestones and streetlamps and horse-drawn carriages. Period dramas on the whole held no particular interest for John, but he was fascinated by the change in Ben. Sherlock was quickly shown to be a man of tremendous command and arrogance, qualities that were readily apparent whether he was engaged in dancing a slow wedding waltz with Irene or conducting criminal investigations that involved outlining his complex theories at a mile a minute. It was a character who seemed to bear little relation either to the tortured anguish of the Creature or to Ben’s own affable, slightly awkward nature.

However, much as he appreciated the production qualities, after a while John found his attention wandering from the intricacies of the plot. All he really wanted to do was watch Sherlock and Irene do…whatever it was they happened to be doing. After the episode had ended, John could only remember the broadest sweep of the story, which involved a series of related murders that Sherlock had dragged Irene into solving when they were meant to have been on their honeymoon.

The things that fixed themselves most strongly in John’s memory, that teased and niggled at the back of his mind for hours afterwards, were tiny, fleeting moments. For instance, there had been a scene where Irene had expressed amazement at one of Sherlock’s deductions, and even now John could see the way Sherlock had looked sharply at her, just before his habitually aloof expression softened briefly into a smile. Then there had been the thrilling sequence where Sherlock and Irene had pursued a hansom cab through the twists and turns of London’s narrow streets, Irene somehow miraculously managing to keep pace with Sherlock despite her buttoned boots and long skirts. John could almost feel the pounding of their hearts as they ran, the feel of the cobblestones beneath their feet. Or the climactic moment where Sherlock’s impulsiveness almost cost him his life as he disappeared with the hansom cab driver, only to be saved from strangulation at the last moment by a pistol shot from Irene, her aim straight and true. The echo of the shot rang in John’s ears, and he could feel the phantom weight of the weapon in his own hands, smell the gunpowder smoke in the air. It was at these times that the indefinable longing seemed to crest within him, as though it were somehow burning the scenes into his consciousness.

John switched off the DVD player after that, feeling that for the time being one episode had been quite enough. In a moment he would make a start on preparing some dinner, but before that he reached for his phone, and the scrap of paper he had earlier tucked inside his wallet. He added Ben to his remarkably short contacts list, and then sent a brief text: _Got the DVD. Not a bad show. Thanks. JW_

He wasn’t too surprised at the lack of response, given that Ben would no doubt be preparing for work at that hour, but only then did John realise how unusual it was that he’d bothered to send a text at all. Harry would have readily attested to that. Perhaps it was something about Ben, or about his character, but there was something there that interested John, and it had been so long since he had felt anything but numb. When John’s phone rang late that evening, part of him was undeniably gratified at seeing Ben’s name flash across the screen.

“Did you _really_ watch it?”

“It was a choice between that and _Deal Or No Deal_.”

“I’m flattered.” Despite the wry edge to his tone, Ben seemed genuinely pleased.

“And how was tonight’s…show? Damage anything new?”

“Just the usual. I always seem to end up with a bruise or two. Even playing Victor I somehow manage it.”

“That must be quite an achievement.” There was a silence then, which threatened to be awkward. It felt to John as though he were sliding along a knife-edge, but he affected a studied casualness. “Well, the surgery’s still open, if you need it.”

“No, really, I’ll be fine,” Ben said, and there was another loaded pause. “But would you happen to serve drinks?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

When Ben showed up half an hour later, the images from the DVD were still fresh in John’s mind, and he had to readjust to Ben’s thoroughly modern, red-haired incarnation all over again. Nevertheless, it was good to see him. Ben looked simultaneously exhausted and full of nervous energy, greeting John with a smile before pacing around his flat. It was immediately clear from Ben’s boots and the helmet he’d brought up tucked under his arm that this time he’d come on his motorbike. What also quickly became obvious was that he was limping slightly and had a tender wrist into the bargain. While Ben was initially adamant that he wasn’t in need of any medical attention, thanks all the same, he finally relented after John graced him with a few pointed remarks on the subject. After ordering Ben into a seat, John ended up dabbing antiseptic on the fresh cuts on his foot, giving him a plaster for the broken toenail, and binding the wrist.

“I hadn’t realised acting was such a hazardous profession. Just try and keep that on as long as possible, would you?” he said, indicating the wrist bandage, even though part of him already knew it was hopeless.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Ben said, ignoring him.

“Actually, I do.”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“How about a cup of tea, instead?” John suggested, wondering if Ben would understand that he meant it as a concession. As far as vices went, both of them could probably do with a little restraint.

A corner of Ben’s mouth quirked up in resignation. “Oh, fine.”

John put the kettle on, and as an afterthought he dumped some assorted biscuits on a plate as well. This time Ben stayed for over an hour, decompressing, asking John more questions about his life, but sharing pieces of his own in return. He talked a little about the theatre, but sensing that was of limited interest to John, branched out into countries he’d visited and things he’d seen, which John was more than happy to hear about. However, for some reason Ben was not particularly keen on hearing about the rare and exotic diseases that might equally be found in such places. They shared a common interest in books, although rarely the same ones, and John came in for a fair share of ribbing over the supernatural thrillers he occasionally indulged in. Apparently Ben hadn’t quite forgiven the ‘fantasyland’ comment either.

When Ben left, it was with a handshake, and a light touch of John’s arm, and an unspoken understanding that he might be back again soon.

***

That night, John dreamed he was standing at one of the windows of his flat, looking down on Baker Street. The living room was dimly lit, and the darkness seemed to press in around him all sides. When he turned back to the room, he found his sparsely furnished flat suddenly transformed. It was now a riot of colours and textures, packed with all manner of objects both mundane and exotic, so many things on the walls and on the floor and piled on various surfaces that the sight temporarily overloaded his visual cortex. Nevertheless his wooden table was still in its place between the windows, although piled high with papers, and to his surprise he saw that Ben was sitting at it, frowning at John’s laptop. His face was gently spot-lit in the glow of the screen. He had his dark wavy Sherlock hair, only slightly longer, and he was dressed in a modern, slim-cut dark suit over a deep purple shirt.

When he turned to John, he was clearly angry, and John could feel the aura of tension surrounding him, almost palpable, confusing. Why was he angry? Was he angry at John? John hadn’t said a word, or done a thing, not that he could remember. Then Ben began speaking to him, his whole form radiating intensity, but John couldn’t hear a word he was saying, try as he might. He lack of response appeared to infuriate Ben, who became increasingly agitated, finally slamming a hand down on the table, hard. It made no sound. However, this time his words finally carried through to John, sounding muffled and far away, although the anger in them was nevertheless clear.

“Can’t you _see_ what’s going on?”

John woke up in darkness, wide-eyed, gasping. _No_ , he thought. _I can’t. I don’t. I have absolutely no idea._


	4. Chapter 4

The days continued to pass, long and slow, as February eased into March, and John’s life began to coalesce and harden into its new structures. John caught up with Harry again, and with Mike, but Ben’s name only came up once near the beginning, and only so Mike could get in a bit of good-natured ribbing about the possible dampening influence of John’s personality on Ben’s detective character. John didn’t bother telling Mike that they were still in touch.

Of the job applications John continued to send out regularly, two of them invited him to an interview, and he dutifully turned up at the appointed times at the appointed places and bored himself so much he couldn’t even remember what he’d said afterwards. While John was still not quite willing to concede the efficacy of therapy, it did seem that gradually he was cooking more, drinking less, and getting around a little better.

He wasn’t entirely sure about the dreams, though. The nightmares of gunfire and screaming had faded, only to be replaced by almost equally troubling dreams of Ben. They were disjointed, fragmentary, yet overlaid with an air of menace that was disturbing. It wasn’t clear to John exactly what the threat was, or exactly who was being threatened, but the feeling was there all the same. If he’d been a more fanciful man, John might have been worried, but it didn’t feel like a warning or premonition of any kind; if anything it was more like an old, forgotten memory. Of a man he would still claim he barely knew.

Nevertheless, John had made a point of watching the remainder of Ben’s detective series, which consisted of a second episode about a mysterious code composed of picturesque stick figures, and a final one where the arrival of a letter containing citrus pips somehow portended doom for the recipient. Neither of them affected him quite as much as the first, although John found himself drawn to some of the secondary characters as well – one being the hapless Scotland Yard detective who turned up now and again to beg help from Sherlock, and the other being Holmes’ well-meaning if slightly treacherous brother, who unsuccessfully tried to co-opt Irene into his plans. Again, it wasn’t so much anything that they _did_ in the show; only that they were _there_. While they didn’t draw quite the same longing from him that Ben’s character did, there was still something about them that spoke to him.

 _Frankenstein_ continued its hugely successful run at the National – sold-out, the papers reported. Ben continued to drop by once or twice a week after work, always prefacing his visits with a text to check whether John was in and awake, which he invariably was. The visits were far more likely to occur when Ben played the Creature than Victor, partly because he was more likely to hurt himself during those performances, but also because it seemed to leave him far more hyped-up than the reverse role. John rarely texted him first; Ben seemed constantly busy during most of his off hours, and John was reluctant to bother him, especially since considering his ongoing dreams it felt uneasily like he was thinking too much of him already.

There was definitely a strange, tentative thing between them that John might have called friendship, except that he still didn’t quite understand why Ben kept coming back. Perhaps it was simply convenient to have a doctor on hand who consulted unofficially, even though John strongly suspected that if not for him Ben might not ever bother going to one at all. Still, John was happy to take Ben as and when he saw him. Maybe with his recent break-up Ben just wanted someone to act as a sounding board occasionally, which was also fine. Ben often seemed to find it relaxing to just sit and talk, rambling on in long, convoluted sentences, which might have been annoying to some, but John found it soothing to just let Ben’s voice wash over him, whether or not he was interested in what was actually being said. The parting handshakes turned into awkward hugs, which John accepted as being part and parcel of Ben’s unnecessarily extroverted personality.

The smoking ban was still in place, the alcohol kept in the cupboard. As time passed, their absences became easier to bear. John bought a handful of nicotine patches, just for the entertainment value of offering Ben one as a substitute. He also bought a few more varieties of tea. His blogging continued sporadically, although he had given up on attempting to recount his own pedestrian existence and turned his hand to picking apart research studies instead. Although he doubted anyone actually read it, it kept him occupied and seemed enough in the way of self-expression to satisfy his therapist.

March rolled over into early April, and it was late on a Saturday night when his phone went off with a message. John was buried deep in the jargon of an online article, but he reflexively fished the phone from his jacket pocket as he continued to read. He was already fairly sure who it would be, despite Ben’s visits having tailed off recently – it had actually been well over a week since John had seen him last. In the back of his mind John knew _Frankenstein_ was nearing the end of its run, and then Ben’s schedule would completely up-end itself. It wasn’t yet clear whether there would still be room for John in the midst of it all, and it was possible their friendship of sorts was simply coming to its natural conclusion. It had bothered him, but he felt there was little he could do about it. As much as he could fasten on and interpret the tiny details of things, the entirety of Ben was still an enigma to him. He glanced at the message.

_Still up?_

_Well, I am NOW_ , he texted back.

_Liar._

John smiled, and went back to his article. Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang, and shortly after that Ben was once again unwrapping himself in John’s living room. John looked him over critically.

“It’s your shoulder, isn’t it?” he said, by way of greeting.

“Hello, John, lovely to see you too. Yes, it has a been a little while since I saw you last, hasn’t it? I’ve been fine, thank you for asking, and yes, it is quite cold out,” Ben said. “How have you been?”

John just looked at him. He was quite sure it hadn’t been that difficult a question. “The left one.”

“Lucky guess,” Ben finally said.

“I never guess. You came up the stairs exactly as usual, but even unwinding that scarf is giving you trouble. Okay, let me take a look.”

Ben stood there quietly and co-operated as John assessed the acromioclavicular joint and the separate muscles of the rotator cuff in turn, taking Ben’s arm through a variety of positions and then having him reach, lift, pull and resist applied pressure while standing. He made Ben sit for the remaining tests, using the wooden chair in front of his still-open laptop.

“So, what were you reading?” Ben said, glancing towards the screen, while his hand rested lightly on his shoulder as per John’s instructions. “Anything interesting?”

“Very,” John said absent-mindedly, his attention focused on testing the movement of Ben’s humerus within the joint. “A Chinese study on immunocamouflage. Bioengineering of red blood cells by grafting on biocompatible polymers in order to prevent transfusion reaction.”

“Sounds fascinating. Although it might just as well be _in_ Chinese.”

“It’s just a disguise for incompatible blood types so they’ll get along,” John said. “Okay, that bit’s done. Now, I want you to rub your stomach with one hand and pat your head with the other.”

He very nearly got away with it. Ben began lifting his hand, but lowered it just in time, and glared. “Well?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Definitely your shoulder.”

“So glad I came to you.”

“Look, you’ve sustained damage to the rotator cuff through repetitive strain, and I’m sure it’s been like that for at least a week, getting progressively worse. You could have cortisone shots to get you through, but you know perfectly well that what you _really_ need to do is stop doing things like this.” John raised his arm in the air and twisted it mock-theatrically. “Which I know you have no intention of doing in the very near future, so what do you want? A sticker and a boiled sweet?”

“I must say you’re not a very _nice_ doctor.”

John considered him for a bit longer, then sighed. “Well, strangely enough I seem to be out of cortisone right now, but I could do you a massage, if you wanted.”

His suggestion was met with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin from Ben. “Really? But I hardly know you.”

“Not that kind,” John said. “Although it might actually have to _be_ the bedroom, unless you like lying face down on hard surfaces.”

“I get enough of that at work.”

That actually did make John smile. “Come on, then.”

***

John stood with his arms folded as Ben took off his shirt, throwing it onto the far side of the double bed before climbing onto it and collapsing dramatically in a heap. His head was turned sideways on John’s pillow, which he’d requisitioned without a qualm. Up close, and minus the heavy makeup of scars, it was apparent that Ben really was in fantastic shape, injured or not. He was a little bumped and bruised in places, but not enough to spoil the general effect. John took a moment to appreciate the aesthetics before rubbing his hands together a little, warming them.

“I don’t have anything fancy,” he said. “Just hands. I’m not running a business here.”

“’S fine,” Ben mumbled, sounding like he was happy just to be lying down.

“Maybe I should just let you sleep.”

“Two shows on Saturdays. Bit tiring.”

Through luck or foresight, Ben’s left shoulder was the one closer to the edge, but the height of the bed meant that bending over it would be awkward. John considered the logistics for a moment and decided to sit instead, even though he’d have to twist a little awkwardly to do the job.

“Shove over a bit,” he said, and waited for Ben to comply.

John started with stretching of the overlying myofascial structure, which involved positioning his hands a little distance from each other on the surface of the skin and then applying pressure as though trying to draw his hands apart. He held each stretch for nearly a minute, just relaxing the area beneath. It was only a preliminary to the actual massage, but Ben was already making appreciative noises that vibrated through his fingertips.

“I haven’t actually started yet.”

“Mmmf,” was the only response he got.

After he’d covered the surface, John moved onto the supraspinatus, which ran over the shoulder blade from spine to shoulder. He pressed his thumbs in near the attachment to the spine, rolled up over the muscle and then stroked firmly outwards to the shoulder. Again it was mostly a matter of repetition, long, slow strokes in order to cover the full width of the muscle from top to bottom. Then onto the infraspinatus, which ran below the shoulder blade, and this time John used his knuckles, palm up, to draw deeply along the lines of the muscle fibres. Despite its lack of intellectual challenge, there was something about using his hands John always found soothing, and his attention was for the most part firmly focused on his work. However, at some point the moaning sounds that Ben was making had passed through appreciative and were verging on obscene.

“Oi,” he said. “Not that kind of massage, remember?”

“Oh, that’s looovely,” Ben said, sounding like he’d had a little too much to drink. “Can I hire you by the week?”

John made a small scoffing noise. “You couldn’t afford me. Okay, I’m going to use my elbow now on the knots.”

In order to apply maximum leverage, he shifted so that one knee was on the edge of the bed, with his other foot on the floor. Positioning his elbow above a likely spot, he put his weight behind it and began to bear down.

“You’re going to have to tell me if it hurts.”

Ben just hummed in his throat, a noise that sounded much like a human version of purring as John pressed down harder. It was actually quite tiring work, and he was sweating, although it wasn’t something he minded terribly. He felt the muscle twitch sharply and then relax under his elbow.

“Ah,” Ben said, although it was more a sound of surprise than pain.

“Anyone would think you’d never had a massage before,” John said, starting again with another likely spot, feeling the same twitch and release. “You should have them in your contract.”

“They’re for wusses.”

“Should I stop?” Push. Twitch. Release.

“Except this one.”

“Yes, because pain builds _character_.”

Ben was quieter now as John finished up with the trigger points and moved onto the teres major and minor, which were located even further down, around the armpit. John used his fingers to just push in and relax them, upper and then lower.

“Almost done. Turn over.”

He almost laughed at the completely dazed expression on Ben’s face when he complied. Just one more part to go, and then John thought he’d have done his good deed for the day. “Now I’m going to bring your arm up so I can get to the subscapularis.”

Now that Ben had flipped over, John was on the wrong side, so he went around the other half of the bed, moving Ben’s shirt away to drape over the wooden board at the foot. He then sat cross-legged on the bed, and pulled at Ben’s upper arm until it was straight out from his body, although still in contact with the bed. Ben’s forearm came up as though he were waving.

“Hello,” Ben said, waggling his fingers. John rolled his eyes.

“Just hold your arm like that for a minute,” he said, and then pressed in and around with his fingers, directly into the armpit.

“Now that’s just weird,” Ben said.

“And yet a strangely useful muscle if you ever want to move your arm around at all. Right. Done. Now _I_ need a nap.”

Since he was already conveniently on the bed, John turned himself around and lay down next to Ben, stretching as best he could. It was a fair way past midnight by now, and after the additional exertion he really was getting sleepy.

“That was wonderful. Thank you,” Ben said quietly.

“Good, I’ll lie here and you can see yourself out.” John grinned.

“So, where did you learn to do that?” Ben had turned on his side, towards him. “I can’t see you taking a class, somehow.”

“It’s mostly basic anatomy, with a little common sense thrown in. Which you’re clearly lacking, since you’re just going to go out and damage yourself all over again on Monday.”

“Tuesday.”

“Oh, well, that’s completely different, then.”

“John?”

“Mmm?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”

“You say that like it’s a meant to be a compliment, but it’s really only a statement of fact.”

Ben laughed softly. “See, that’s pretty much exactly what I meant.”

It seemed natural enough that Ben should reach for him then, taking him by the arm in a friendly way, but when it was followed by Ben’s mouth suddenly pressed softly against his own, John panicked. Despite the joking earlier, he truly hadn’t been expecting anything of the kind. John’s offer of a massage had been a purely therapeutic one, based on the discomfort Ben had clearly been in when he arrived. Perhaps he had been hoping it would lead to a continuation of his friendship as well, but no more than that. He hadn’t been trying to seduce Ben, or lead him on. It was true that he found him attractive to look at, beautiful, even, in his own way, but John also admired classical paintings, and sculptures, and sunsets, and you didn’t go around wanting to get up close and personal with those. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said relationships – or sex, for that matter – weren’t really his area. It had been an interesting phase, but quite enough to last him a lifetime. However, apparently he hadn’t been quite clear enough.

“What are you doing?” John said, although it was really perfectly obvious. He just couldn’t quite come to terms with it that quickly. One moment he’d been feeling relaxed and happy, and in the next everything had turned itself upside-down. Before he could even think, he’d instinctively wrenched himself up and away from Ben, pushing himself to a sitting position. He could hear the shocked sharpness in his own voice that at that moment sounded very like anger. Ben was staring at back at him, wide-eyed, appalled.

“S-sorry,” Ben said, and even in the midst of his confusion John noticed that the trace of a lisp became more pronounced under stress. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” Ben held up a defensive hand, although John hadn’t made any move towards him; in fact quite the opposite. “Nothing. You’re right. I’ll…see myself out.”

John just kept staring at him as Ben scrambled off the bed, almost comically trying to grab his shirt off the footboard without going too near John. His socks and boots lay near the door, and he stooped to gather them too. Seconds later, Ben had left the room without looking back. As John slumped back onto the bed, now exhausted beyond words, he heard the door close soon after, and then the careless, creaking rush of Ben’s flight down the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

That night, John dreamed of running, his footsteps sounding through darkened, near-empty streets, more cobblestones beneath his feet. Splashes of light covered the pavement at random angles: from a security bulb on a wall, the fluorescent glow of an office building, the blue of a police car flashing twice as it crossed the mouth of the street. Lights and shadows, and the air of menace closing in around him again. Or more accurately, closing in around _them_ ; John didn’t want to be running like this, but he had no choice, because the man in the dark overcoat was pulling him down the street by the hand, his legs covering the same ground with relative ease. With the pure logic of dreams John didn’t even need to see his face to know that it was Ben, could only be him. When John tried to speak, no words came out, and even when he tried to release Ben’s hand, it made no difference. He was still being dragged along, now by a pair of inescapable metal bracelets that bound them together as they ran. Handcuffs. Really? John felt that was a little kinky, even for his subconscious.

They ran down a dark alleyway – how very predictable – which ended in the thin palings of a high metal fence. Ben was up and over in an instant, leaving John dangling helplessly on the other side.

“Sherlock, _wait_ ,” John heard himself demanding, and then Ben was looking at him intently again through the fence. Only John was no longer entirely sure it was Ben. At least, that hadn’t been the name he’d just used. John reached out to catch hold of him, to demand an answer, but just as his fingers closed on heavy cloth the lights and the street and the man were all gone.

***

The next morning, John woke late, and during his morning routine – shower, tea, toast – his thoughts inevitably returned to his dreams, and Ben. He wasn’t surprised that some part of him seemed fixated on Ben, especially after what had happened between them last night. John was, after all, rather prone to odd obsessions, even if he didn’t always fully understand them, and the symbolism wasn’t particularly difficult to decipher. Even though Ben had run off, John would inevitably go after him, because there was a connection between them that was undeniable. It was a trivial psychological insight, so heavy-handed and obvious that he felt his psyche really should be ashamed of itself.

John had been genuinely surprised at Ben’s overtures, and perhaps in hindsight he shouldn’t have been, but he felt it would have been unreasonable to presume otherwise. Ben was an up-and-coming actor who had just come out of a decade-long relationship with a woman, and John was, well, exactly the prickly sod he’d always been. Therefore there was simply no way he might have logically concluded that Ben might be interested in something like…kissing him. The conclusion made John feel a little better, but still left the question of what he was going to do about it.

Having had the night to think things over, he had found himself curious about what it might be like to go further down that path with Ben, to connect with him in the way he seemed to inexplicably want. It wasn’t that John was averse to sex; it just didn’t seem relevant to his life a lot of the time. Pleasant enough, but with a tendency to be messy, and he didn’t mean in the strictly physical sense. Still, he liked Ben. He was didn’t seem particularly intimidated by John, or annoyed by him. And he wasn’t _entirely_ boring. The whole acting thing was proving to be quite entertaining, on the whole. More worrying was the strange effect his Sherlock character seemed to have on John every time his name came up, but that was hardly Ben’s fault.

When John located his mobile, he weighed it in his hand for a full minute, contemplating how best to proceed. It was ridiculous, really, such an expenditure of thought and emotion on something so trivial. It would have been far more _efficient_ to just let Ben go for good, but the fact was that he didn’t want to. He should really call, but he feared that somewhere along the way he would say something inadvisable and unforgiveable. Experience had shown that maximum brevity on his part was usually the best approach.

 _Have lunch with me,_ he typed, finally. After a moment’s further consideration, he added, _I’ll even leave the Sig at home._

He sent the message, and then put the phone down beside his empty plate, still troubled by the dream. In one context it all made perfect sense, but if it was indeed Ben he was fixated on, why was John reprising him as some obscure Victorian detective, newly-minted into modern clothing? That was the part that made the least sense. On the face of it, Ben and his character would seem to have little in common; and if this were actually meant to be Sherlock, why didn’t he even _look_ the same way he did on television? John fervently hoped he wasn’t going to start dreaming about some variation on the Creature next. That really would be a descent back into nightmare territory.

When his phone beeped in short order John picked it up with a mild sense of surprise. Even if Ben had checked his phone immediately, John would have expected a much longer delay, if not outright avoidance. Once again he had apparently underestimated Ben’s fortitude. John opened the message.

_That’s not very reassuring._

Not the most encouraging of responses, but good enough.

 _Angelo’s@1300_ , John typed, followed by the address. Then he smiled slightly, and delivered his coup de grâce. _Please._

There was no reply, but John already had every confidence he wouldn’t be having lunch alone.

***

The restaurant was a cosy Italian place set up primarily for the dinner trade, but not proud enough to disdain a little passing business earlier in the day. When John tired of his own cooking, and found Mrs Hudson unsympathetic to his plight, he would occasionally drop in for a meal. Not too often, for Angelo’s generosity had not waned during John’s absence from London, and he didn’t like to be regarded as taking advantage. Still, it was one of the first places he had gone after establishing himself at Baker Street, just for the pleasure of being back in relatively familiar surroundings. While the place had undergone a slightly hard-edged renovation while he’d been away, John had found his favourite window seat and the warm welcome unchanged. When he’d rung a little earlier in the day, Angelo had assured him it would be waiting for him as always.

Even with the walking stick, it was a manageable distance from Baker Street, and John set off at ten minutes to the hour. He rounded the corner to see Ben peering uncertainly into the large multi-paned window that fronted the restaurant, trying to see into its depths. So engaged was he in surveying the premises that John almost managed to whack him on the shins before he looked up.

“Careful,” John said. “Could be dangerous.”

“Uh…hi.” Ben attempted a smile, but it was weak, and the way he stood with his hands in his pockets gave him a distinctly nervous air. He’d clearly not slept well either, nor had he shaved. However the plain white T-shirt and jeans he was wearing showed signs of having been quickly and ineptly ironed. Apparently John hadn’t managed to dent his self-confidence too badly.

John nodded at him, and led the way into the restaurant, sliding into the padded front booth in his usual spot. He preferred the seat side-on to the room, which gave him an excellent view of the interior as well as the passing traffic. He leaned his walking stick against the wall that abutted the booth. The rest of the bench ran directly beneath the front window, and left Ben sitting with his back to the street.

Within seconds Angelo descended upon them, rotund and genial in his shirtsleeves, bearing menus. “Doctor Watson,” he beamed. “Anything you like, on the house, for you…” Angelo turned to Ben, assessing him with interest, but without apparent recognition, “…and your date.”

“I’m not his date,” Ben said hastily, and John caught the slight wince. It was difficult to say whether it was from residual embarrassment, or whether he was merely concerned about of the potential for gossip, given that he was something of a public figure. However, this fell into the category of things that were not John’s problem, and he accepted his menu with only a sidelong glance at Ben.

“This man,” Angelo continued, indicating John to a completely nonplussed Ben, “saved my life.”

“Ben,” John said, “this is Angelo. Who once happened to have a heart attack right in front of me.”

“They say I was clinically dead for six minutes,” Angelo continued. “I heard the voices, saw the bright lights, everything. He performed CPR, stayed with me until the ambulance came.”

“You still went to prison afterwards, though,” John pointed out.

Angelo shrugged magnificently. “Not for very long.”

“He’s forgotten to mention he was holding a knife on me at the time,” John explained, mainly to see the expression on Ben’s face. “Housebreaking. He’d just come in through the window, and then the excitement all got too much for him. Complete waste of effort. I didn’t have anything worth stealing.”

“Really.” Ben appeared to have reservations about the truth of John’s story, even though in this case they were completely unfounded.

“I wasn’t living in a very nice part of town.”

“Saved my life,” Angelo repeated, just in case Ben had missed it the first time. Then he appeared to drag himself back from his remembrances to his current occupation. “Maybe I’ll get you some nice flowers for the table. ‘S more romantic.”

“I’m not his date,” Ben said again. John just smiled.

“So was that like…a kind of threat?” Ben said, when Angelo had gone. “Behave, or I’ll sic Angelo on you?”

“What? Don’t be daft, he just likes telling the story. Besides, I still have no idea where you live. So, what are you having?”

However, Ben seemed currently more interested in studying John than the menu.

“John…about last night. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

“Yes. You said already. It’s fine. Actually…” John paused as Angelo swept in with a glass bud vase containing a small spray of artificial flowers, then disappeared again. “It’s…more than fine. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“I thought you were supposed to be _observant_.”

John sighed. “Right. See that man over there? He’s very likely diabetic, definitely drinks too much, and from the looks of it is engaged in an affair with the woman opposite him, who clearly isn’t his wife. But I can’t tell you what he had for dinner last night. Those two girls over there are tourists, German from the edge of the guidebook poking out the top of the backpack, and they’ve only just arrived, probably on the train. It’s likely from their clothes and matching bags that they share a flat back home, but it’s difficult to say whether they’re lovers or just good friends. And he…” John indicated the server clearing the table opposite, “got engaged last month, supports West Ham, and drives an old Ford prone to having breakdowns.”

“How could you possibly tell that?”

“Hi, Billy,” John called.

Billy looked around, and held up a solemn hand. “Ready, then? Be over in a minute.”

“Very funny,” Ben said.

“However, I have no idea what colour his hallway is painted. I can see you didn’t sleep very well, your bathroom’s badly lit, and you came here on your bike. But not why you did…what you did last night. I notice _some_ things. I’m not a mind-reader.”

“I would have thought it was fairly obvious _why_.”

Billy came back then, notepad in hand, the mark of the amateur. In contrast to the grizzled Angelo, he was a tall, sharply dressed youth with cropped brown hair and an affectedly bored expression, which faltered slightly as he took a better look at Ben.

“Hey, aren’t you that bloke from the telly? The detective guy, whatsit? Sherlock Holmes. The game’s afoot and all that.”

Ben smiled politely as he admitted that yes, that was him, and John was fascinated as before his eyes Ben shifted into a completely different mode, graciously professional. Even his voice seemed to modulate into a lower key. He chatted amiably to Billy for a minute about the show, signed his notepad, and ordered an omelette and chips. John managed to squeeze in an order for coffee and pasta when Billy finally remembered him.

“Sorry, Doctor Watson, didn’t know you had friends. Um, like that, I mean.” It had obviously improved his opinion of John greatly.

There was a long silence as they watched Billy walk away. Only then did John risk a glance in Ben’s direction, and a second later they were both stifling a burst of laughter, doing their best not to attract attention.

“Well, aren’t _you_ special?” John said at last.

“Come here a lot by yourself, do you?” Ben retorted, not sounding in the least sympathetic. “He sounded so _surprised_ you might actually have friends.”

“It’s true, you know,” John said, still smiling. “I do know a few people, like Mike, but we’re not really…close.”

“All right, all right, I believe you,” Ben said. “When it comes to understanding people, sometimes you’re an idiot.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to say thank you.”

The food arrived shortly thereafter and they ate, although John found that he wasn’t terribly hungry. Today he’d already done his best, in his own way, to show Ben how much his friendship meant, how John felt about him. He still didn’t know whether it had been enough. John pushed away his plate, only half-finished, and sipped his coffee while watching Ben pick at his remaining chips. Without further hesitation his free right hand slipped under the table and found the rough denim over Ben’s knee, stroking it lightly. Ben looked up at him, startled.

“John?” he said.

Even that single word sounded thick with uncertainty. Not quite willing to meet Ben’s eyes, John gazed steadfastly out the window, while his hand settled in place for a moment, and squeezed. He licked his lips nervously, glancing just once at Ben. Then he stood up without a word and walked out of the restaurant, trusting that Ben would have enough sense to follow.

Apparently, he did.

***

They walked in uneasy silence back to Baker Street, side by side, but keeping a wary distance between them. There they immediately happened upon Mrs Hudson in her floral Sunday best, seated in the hallway chair, reading. It was her usual habit when waiting on someone, and John belatedly remembered she’d mentioned going to the movies with Mr Chatterjee in the afternoon. She brightened when she saw John, and even more so as Ben came into view, setting her book down as she stood up to greet them. John surrendered himself to the inescapable introductions.

“Mrs Hudson, this is…Ben,” John said, and stopped there. It wasn’t quite a _proper_ introduction, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, hello, Ben. You’re the one who’s been showing up at all hours, aren’t you? You brought that DVD round, too.”

Ben’s late-night visits had not managed to go entirely unnoticed, and although Mrs Hudson had thankfully refrained from ever coming out in her nightdress to investigate, John had already been subject to several bouts of questioning.

“That’s right, that was me. Very rude of me not to introduce myself at the time, wasn’t it? Hello.”

Ben took her hand, really turning on the charm, and John inwardly rolled his eyes. One of the many things he knew about Mrs Hudson by now was that she was an avid watcher of any bonnet drama that came her way, regardless of genre. Which meant that in approximately five…four…three…two…

“You do look familiar, dear. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? You don’t work down at that new bakery on Crawford, do you?”

“No, he doesn’t,” John interrupted, just a shade brusquely, impatient now. “He’s an actor. On telly. He does that _Sherlock_ series that everyone watched last year except me. So if you could get your fawning out of the way quite quickly, I’d appreciate it.”

“Oh, of course!” she said, with blithe indifference. “Benedict…something. You look so different, all modern like that. And with that auburn. That girl who plays Irene is just lovely too, isn’t she?”

“Lara,” Ben said. “Yes, she is, very much so. Utterly charming. A joy to work with.”

“I did so love that episode with all the little stick figures, and the way you drew them all over the apartment, and Irene was so _cross_ with you…”

“Thank you, yes, that was a lot of fun to do. Although really, it was the set designers who…”

“But your brother behaved terribly; he should have known that there was no chance Irene would even _consider_ …”

At that moment, there came a buzzing ring from the door, and overwhelming gratitude forced John to briefly reconsider his lack of belief in a benevolent deity.

“And that’ll be Mr Chatterjee now,” he said, placing a hand on Mrs Hudson’s back and firmly ushering her towards the door, still talking. After a moment she glanced back, gesticulating frantically for her handbag, which Ben obligingly retrieved from beside the chair.

John was proven to be half-right. It was indeed Mr Chatterjee, neatly pressed and beaming, but behind him stood Angelo, now gesturing for John’s attention. It was clearly rush hour at Baker Street. A complicated series of exchanges then followed whereby John handed Mrs Hudson off to Mr Chatterjee, Ben handed the shoulder bag to Mrs Hudson, and Angelo handed John his walking stick, which he had apparently left at the restaurant. After a secondary flurry of hellos and good-byes and thank-you-very-muches, John was finally left in the hallway with both the walking stick and Ben, who was looking at him with some amusement.

“Leg feeling a bit better, then?” he asked, all innocence.

There was really no graceful way out of it. An immediate distraction was the only recourse, and John stood the walking stick carefully in a nearby corner before turning back to Ben. A moment later he had pushed Ben against the wall, reached up to cup the side of his face, and was soon kissing him with deliberate, focused intent. The height differential was just enough that Ben could have made life difficult for John, if he’d so chosen, but apparently he was prepared to quite literally meet him halfway. There was little of the caution or gentle restraint Ben had shown last night; with every fierce press of his lips and tongue it was as though John had thrown down a challenge and dared him to meet it. In this instance Ben had risen to the occasion magnificently, and before long it became apparent to John that there was a certain literalness apparent there, too.

“For god’s sake, do you think we could at least go upstairs, first?” John said, the gruffness in his voice ill-concealing the fact that his own arousal was more than a little apparent.

“I don’t know,” Ben said, glancing pointedly over at John’s walking stick again. Bastard. “Do you think you can manage it?”

Without waiting for an answer, Ben began climbing swiftly up the stairs, and John followed him without looking back.

***

This time, there were no misunderstandings, and they ended up once again on John’s bed, clothing strewn around them on the floor. There had been a few moments of initial awkwardness, of covert glances and fumbling, but now they finally curved in towards each other, kissing frantically. John wrapped his hand around both of their erections, with Ben’s hand around his, and they moved together until Ben groaned his name, his cock twitching in John’s grasp, his warmth on John’s belly. It wasn’t long before John followed, fingers clutching at Ben’s side, his breath coming hard and sobbing against Ben’s shoulder.

Despite all that followed, it was something John would never forget.


	6. Chapter 6

“You can tell quite a lot about someone’s health from semen,” John said thoughtfully, as they lay together in the wake of the encounter. “Appearance, consistency, speed of coagulation. Taste. Even before lab analysis.”

“That’s fascinating, John. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

John shifted onto his side, laying a hand on Ben’s chest. “Sorry, I forgot, this is the part where I’m supposed to say something nice, isn’t it? That was…good.”

“Yes. It was.” Ben’s laugh rumbled, low and sweet. “So, how many ‘samples’ have you managed, then?”

“What? Oh, a few, I think,” John frowned. “I kept most of the sense memories, but I may have deleted some of the actual people. They were basically repeats.”

“You can…delete people from your memory?”

“Your brain only has the capacity to remember a certain amount of detail. Your medical records don’t contain every cold you ever had, do they? I only keep things that are either interesting or useful.”

“Ah.”

“I’m forgetting something else, aren’t I? Um, I think you’re very attractive? Surely that comes before.”

“Your script could do with a little work.”

“Maybe you could help me out. With all your experience,” John said. While he was admittedly a little out of practice, he was fairly sure that a kiss was appropriate for most intimacy-related circumstances, so he pulled Ben in for one. The response showed John that he was at least on the right track, but Ben still looked troubled.

“Hardly. I don’t know how it must seem to you, but I was with the same woman for over a decade. It’s not like I make a practice of…well, let’s just say none of this is at all _usual_ for me.”

“It bothers you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“We could go back to being…friends? If that’s what you’d call it.”

“Okay, it doesn’t bother me that much.” Ben’s smile faded into a look of concern. “John?”

“Nothing,” John said, although one hand was already massaging the left side of his skull, along the coronal suture, trying to diffuse the sensation. “I’m just getting…a bit of a headache, I think. Nothing paracetamol won’t fix.”

“Do you want me to…”

“No, it’s fine.” Whatever it was, it seemed to be fading already, which was a relief. John was fairly sure that this, too, was not the way it was supposed to go.

***

The shift in their relationship resulted in very little upheaval in John’s life, for which he was grateful. Ben resumed visiting two or three times a week, always at night, although he stayed longer than before. Sometimes they only sat and talked, and sometimes they didn’t, and occasionally Ben was still there when John woke up in the morning.

Outside of those times, they saw little of each other. _Frankenstein_ took up most of the evenings, and by now many of Ben’s other waking hours were occupied with scripts and other preparation for the new series of _Sherlock_. Preliminary briefings and costume fittings were apparently already well under way. John had finally managed to secure himself four shifts a week at a clinic on Marylebone, which required him to work at least one day on the weekends. That took care of the rent, at least, and he finally contacted Harry to get his things out of storage. While his rooms at Baker Street remained impeccably neat and tidy, they began to look a little more lived in, with Ben contributing, often unintentionally. A pen here, a pullover there. John ended up allocating him a drawer and putting anything he’d left behind in it.

They learned more about each other in other ways, too, in touch and taste and breath. Ben threw himself as wholeheartedly into this new role as he seemed to do everything else, and swept John along in his enthusiasm. John’s own previous experiences had been primarily ones of curiosity or boredom, of basic needs that were easily satisfied and done away with in a single encounter. The transition from friendship to relationship was every bit as novel for him in its own way, and brought its own discoveries. It was somehow very different to consider someone else’s pleasure as much as your own. He mapped with precision the best places to touch with hands and lips and tongue, at which time and at what length. He learned the different sounds of Ben’s arousal and the sounds he made when he came. In turn there was the reward of Ben’s sheer, uncritical desire, the sparkle of his eyes, the encompassing heat of his inexpert mouth around John’s cock. John took whatever Ben offered without thought of asking for more.

“Closing night tomorrow,” Ben said one night, as he lay pillowed on John’s shoulder. By this time they were both ready for sleep, but the light was still on.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So…there’s going to be a party of sorts afterwards.”

“Right. So I won’t be seeing you, then,” John said in acknowledgement. At that moment he wasn’t entirely sure whether he were referring to the next night, or the foreseeable future.

“I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come along.”

John tilted his head, looking at him in at surprise. “Why?”

“Because it’s what people normally do.”

“Go to parties? Yes, but only because they don’t have anything better to do. My cell cultures are a lot more interesting, and they don’t even talk.”

Since John’s belongings had emerged from storage, the kitchen table had quickly been repurposed for holding lab equipment, because John preferred to eat in the living room anyway. He’d also persuaded Mike to take him on a tour of the labs at Barts, where he surreptitiously acquired some samples of interesting research along the way. It was just the continuation of a hobby that made an absorbing sideline to his less-than-challenging medical career, but maybe in time he would find his way into a proper lab after all. As a bonus, it had also succeeded in teaching Ben never to go foraging randomly through the contents of John’s fridge.

“I _meant_ that people usually invite…other people along. Partners, mainly. For example, Jonny’ll bring Michele, and I…could bring you.”

“Not quite the same thing, is it? It’s been, what, three weeks? Anyway, I thought this whole ‘shagging a bloke’ thing still bothered you.”

“It does,” Ben admitted. “But that’s the point, it bloody well shouldn’t. I mean, that’s what everyone says nowadays, don’t they? It doesn’t matter. But it does, and it shouldn’t. It would just be cowardly, hiding you away like I’m ashamed of it.”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” John said. “Not to anyone else, and not to me. Especially since I don’t actually _want_ to go. You go, have fun, do…whatever it is you people do.”

“It’s just that sometimes I wonder…John, be honest with me. This…it’s not just another one of your experiments, is it?”

“Hey, you were the one who wanted to study me, remember? And you were the one who said he’d never been with another man before.”

“I suppose,” Ben said, but he still didn’t sound happy. “It’s just that once filming starts, things are going to change. Long hours, most days, and I’ll have to go off a fair bit, although some of it will be in London. During the first series Olivia used to say it felt like I was never home, even though she knows exactly what it’s like. It’s difficult, it always is, and it’d be a shame if I couldn’t come over as much, and so I thought maybe…you know.”

“You’ve completely lost me.”

“I’d like it if we could…stay in touch. God, that sounds stupid. Move in with me.”

John blinked at him, momentarily taken aback by Ben’s impulsive leap of logic. “Not bloody likely. Have you seen the state of your flat? I don’t think you could fit another person in there.”

From his one and only visit, John thought it was possible Ben hadn’t thrown away a significant piece of clothing or memorabilia since secondary school. It was a huge flat, actually two joined together, but crammed full of things that didn’t seem to perform any visible function as far as he could tell. It was clean enough, thanks to a weekly service, and might have been considered ‘homey’ or ‘cosy’ by some, but it wasn’t a space John could imagine trying to think in for any length of time. Still, he appreciated what he thought Ben was trying to tell him, even if it wasn’t the most sensible of ideas.

“Besides, you realise what people would think if word got out?” John reminded him gently. “Your career…”

“They would think the truth. And damn my career. It’ll be fine. It’s not as though I’d be the first actor in recorded history with a…boyfriend.”

John considered in silence. While he didn’t entirely share Ben’s confidence, he had to admit the prospect was attractive, particularly if the alternative was seeing almost nothing of him at all. When he glanced back up, Ben was watching him, his face alight with determination, and John realised he’d never had anyone look at him like that before, who genuinely wanted to spend as much time around him as he possibly could. He would have to be an idiot to turn it down.

“Look,” John said. “There’s another bedroom upstairs that’s just sitting empty right now; it’s more of a box room, really. Maybe you could arrange something with Mrs Hudson so you could keep a few of your extra…clothes and things there?”

“She wouldn’t mind?”

“It might be nice if you offered to chip in some extra rent. I would, but my job doesn’t…”

“No, that part’s fine. I mean about…this.”

“Who do you think keeps _reminding_ me about the spare bedroom?”

“Oh. Right,” Ben said, clearly performing a speedy re-evaluation of her character. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how is it that you know Mrs Hudson, anyway?”

“Her late husband was a patient of mine. I may have…helped him out a bit towards the end.”

“You managed to prolong his life?”

“Shortened it. Pentobarbitone.”

“I…see.”

“Still sure you want to move in?” John said, and smiled.

Ben eventually agreed to attend the cast party alone, and by the end of the week the spare room was duly secured. Shortly thereafter, an assortment of Ben’s possessions began to make determined incursions into territory John had previously thought of as his own. For the most part, he let them stay.

***

It was the middle of one of his days off, and John looked up expectantly from the paper at the sound of Ben’s footsteps on the stairs. However, he was entirely unprepared for the sight of Sherlock sweeping grandly through the door. Dressed in a cream-coloured shirt and smart charcoal suit, he was an apparition straight out of John’s uneasy dreams, and for a moment John almost doubted his own senses. The man smiled at him, seemingly oblivious to his confusion.

“So, what do you think? John?”

For a moment John thought nothing at all as the shock engulfed him. His heart raced and the blood pounded in his head before his rational mind belatedly caught up. Ben had clearly just had his hair re-styled and dyed for his new role, of course; that was all, and only to be expected now that filming was due to begin. It was even possible he might have mentioned something of the sort earlier in the day, but John hadn’t really been listening.

“Oh,” he said, recovering. “Yeah. Fine. You look good. But what’s with the…outfit?”

“Interviews today, remember?” Ben said. “Only press, but there’ll be photos taken, so I thought I’d make an effort. Didn’t you hear a single thing I said this morning?”

“I’m not sure. But the _aspergillus_ is doing really nicely. And you were definitely wearing a bathrobe then.”

“Glad you noticed that much.” Ben smiled. “And you might not be aware, but it’s well past lunchtime now. Hungry?”

Now that he was over the initial surprise, John was forced to conclude that, dreams or not, he thoroughly approved of Ben in that suit. He quickly ditched the paper and walked over to run his hand over a lapel before pulling Ben down into a lingering kiss.

“Starving,” he said.

They never made it to lunch, and Ben ended up having to change his entire outfit again.

***

When production started in earnest the following week, Ben abruptly went missing, with only his scattered belongings around the flat acting as place-holders for his presence. The first three weeks saw Ben filming in Cardiff; the week thereafter at some country house estate near Manchester. While they exchanged phone calls and texts several times a day, John occasionally found himself talking to his skull again.

As their relationship had evolved, John’s strange dreams had gradually faded away, only to be replaced by a brand new unpleasantness in the form of recurring headaches. John had dismissed the first few as chance occurrences, things that might happen due to diet or stress or some other nonsense, but by now he had come to expect two or three a day, and it was really starting to bother him. Many doctors were chronic hypochondriacs, and John had always looked on them with contempt, but he couldn’t stop the creeping feeling that in this case there might really be something wrong. The experience had gone from a dull, fleeting pain to taking on some of the characteristics of migraines, complete with visual auras and scotoma. However, their duration was uncharacteristically short, ranging from a few seconds to ten minutes. The ache always began in the same place, along the coronal suture behind the left temple, radiating outwards. There were several potential causes he could think of, none of them things John particularly wanted to consider. With Ben still away, he confided in Mike long enough to arrange an MRI on himself at Barts, which came up clear. He could only conclude that they were simply a different psychosomatic symptom that hopefully in time would go away, just as the dreams had done. On the bright side, his mandated therapy was finished, so at least his problems were now entirely his own.

Ben finally returned to London, and while John enjoyed pretending he’d barely noticed his absence, he was quietly pleased. Although Ben was still working long, erratic hours, his renewed presence somehow gave John a sense of connectedness to the world he hadn’t known he’d been missing. In a way, Ben’s unpredictable schedule also formed part of his charm; combined with John’s own staggered shifts, there was simply no way to fall into any kind of routine. Nevertheless, they made a point of finding time to spend with each other whenever they could. It seemed to be enough.

John already knew it couldn’t last for too long, though. He knew that Ben very much wanted children, which would make John a less-than-ideal partner, and that was before even considering the repercussions on Ben’s career if things became public. Bravado was one thing, but actually experiencing the backlash was another. It also seemed quite clear to John that Ben, whether he understood it or not, was engaged in carrying out an experiment of his own. Ben had never had the opportunity to be with a man; now he had the chance with John, and was taking full advantage of it. Everything he and John shared could only add to his stock of experiences, and would probably transmute itself in time into useable material for future performances. John didn’t think he was doing it deliberately, or cruelly – he could already anticipate Ben’s furious denials on the matter – but he’d seen enough of Ben’s thirst for new experiences to conclude that it was simply who Ben was. However, meeting Ben had also saved John from himself, and he would always be grateful for that. He was willing to give Ben whatever he needed for as long as he could.

***

“All I’m saying is, how can it take the entire bloody day and half the night to get five minutes’ worth of work done?” John was only teasing, but in truth the matter did remain something of a mystery to him. Tonight, Ben had come through the door at a few minutes past six, a miraculously early hour, and they were both taking advantage of it. “If doctors did things the way you lot do them, all our patients would be dead by now.”

“Says the man who hasn’t set foot outside the flat all day.”

“I bought milk. Anyway, I worked the entire weekend, so it’s entirely reasonable that I get two days off in the middle.”

“You should come by and see for yourself.” Ben’s voice came from the other end of the bed, sounding muffled, but sincere. “Like I keep telling you. Oh, I should have mentioned, we’re actually filming at Barts next week.”

“Really.”

“Not inside, obviously. Just the façade and a part of the rooftop. It hasn’t changed that much in a hundred years.”

Ben obviously thought the mention of John’s former training grounds would stir his interest, and while that was true, it also sent a confusing pang of dread through him.

“Yeah, okay, I wouldn’t mind having a look…but I’m not going to be shown off to anyone, all right?” Having now had some exposure to the general interest in Ben, John had made it quite clear over the past months that he wasn’t comfortable with advertising their relationship, which so far had managed to escape public notice. There may have been rumours, but Ben was thankfully still low-profile enough to escape being actively followed by the media. He’d dutifully kept the flat at Hampstead, which he owned, and still went back there regularly to show his face and pick up mail. On the rare occasions he and John went out together, they behaved strictly as friends, nothing more. “It’s your own business if you want to spend the next three months fielding questions on your sexuality, but you can do it when you’re seeing some other bloke.”

Ben sighed. “I’ll just say you’re a good friend, then.”

“Acquaintance?”

“Don’t push your luck. _Anyway_ , I don’t think now is really the time for this conversation, do you?”

Privately, John felt that having Ben naked on the bed with his knees drawn up slightly and his arse in the air was a perfectly agreeable way to engage in any given discussion. Under the circumstances, though, he refrained from arguing.

“Oh, fine. So you’ve really never done this before? Not even on yourself?”

“No,” Ben mumbled. “Stop sounding so surprised.”

“You know, I should probably give you a thorough check-up while I’m up there.”

Ben turned to glare over his shoulder as John did his best to keep a straight face.

“Right, I think maybe I’ve changed my mind about this now.”

However, he made no attempt to pull away as John began to run a lubed finger along his perineum in firm, gentle strokes before pushing the tip inside. Ben immediately tensed, and then exhaled a long, shaky breath.

“Bear down a little,” John advised him, and pushed in a little further. “And try to relax.”

“God…ah…no, this is definitely not natural.”

“For someone who’s all too happy showing off his arse to the entire world, you’re a bit of a prude.” A little further in, and the firm bulge was there beneath his fingertip. He stroked lightly, once, then a little more firmly.

“That’s a completely different…oh, god. Fuck. Stop a minute…stop.”

Ben’s eyes were shut, and he was already making small, jerky movements against the sheets. He breathed deeply, collecting himself, then nodded slightly for John to proceed. John could feel Ben’s entire body shiver with each brush, and when he increased the pressure it drew low, incoherent moans from deep in his throat, almost as though he were in pain. He could see the muscles of Ben’s thighs quivering as he fought not to just rub himself off as quickly as he could, his cock hard against his belly, pre-come already beading at the tip. John continued carefully pushing Ben’s limits, assisted by a great deal of lube, and had just begun a slow internal massage when one of Ben’s hands reached backward, pushing on John’s arm with surprising strength.

“John. Not like this. I want you to…I want you to fuck me. I want to know what it feels like.”

Caught in the intense focus of Ben’s gaze, John nodded, his mouth suddenly dry with adrenaline and desire. He was surprised himself by the strength of it; he was more accustomed to people who knew exactly what they liked and were not shy in demanding it from him, while he in turn had never had any hesitation in taking from them whatever he needed. The trust that Ben had always placed in him pushed John into a strange place, somewhere between the professional and the personal. It threw him a little off-balance at times, but the feeling was not unwelcome.

He slicked himself up slowly, allowing Ben a little breathing space, and told him to lie on his right side, before spooning himself directly behind. When they were comfortably positioned, he reached for Ben’s left hand with his own, and their fingers intertwined. Then John began pushing in as carefully as he could, taking his cue from Ben’s whimpers of pain and pleasure, and the tightening of Ben’s grip on his own. Deep, deeper, and he was there, the full length of his cock buried inside Ben’s body. He stilled, and dropped a kiss into the hollow between Ben’s shoulder blades before pressing as much of himself along Ben’s back as he was able.

“You are fucking gorgeous, you know that?” John growled.

“John, oh, god,” Ben sounded breathless, surprised. “It’s so…fuck, it’s intense.”

John took his time, then, experimenting with speed and angles, until Ben had moved from _oh_ to _oh_ , _fuck_ to _god, John, fuck, please_. Then John shifted his left hand to curl around Ben’s cock, full and heavy, and brought him off in a few deft strokes. Ben’s cries escalated in pitch and intensity as John kept rocking into him through his orgasm, feeling the muscles tighten and release around him. Only then did John let himself fall into sensation, driving smoothly into Ben’s body until he came with a long, shuddering sigh, his cheek damply pressed against Ben’s back.

He had barely regained the ability to breathe normally when a sudden wave of pain assailed him. It made him pull abruptly away and flip himself over to lie flat on his back, one hand pressed tightly against the side of his head, grimacing.

“John?” Ben had turned over quickly to face him, his eyes wide, and he reached out a hand out uncertainly. “Are you all right? I thought you said…but they’re actually getting worse, aren’t they?”

“Oh, about the same, really,” John managed through gritted teeth.

“You’re lying.”

“All right, a bit, but I’ve seen all the scans, and there’s really nothing wrong with me. Promise.”

“You need to see a doctor, and don’t give me some smartarse remark about being one.”

“They’re really not as helpful as you might think. Just give me a second, I’ll be fine.”

The headache faded away quickly enough, but even after they had cleaned up and settled down for the night, John lay awake for a good while longer. He curled up against Ben’s side, listening to the sound of his breathing, the steady thump of his heartbeat, until their combined rhythms finally lulled him into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Since John had refused point-blank to accompany Ben to his seven am call, by the time he turned up in Smithfield it was already close to noon. The filming site was impossible to miss; a couple of streets had been blocked off, traffic had been diverted, and trucks and equipment were everywhere. Still outside the perimeter, John looked up towards the rooftop, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. There was definitely something of a crowd up there, clustered well behind the old stone balustrade. He thought he could see Ben amongst them, his height and the grey tweed cape making him relatively easy to spot. Given the warmth of the day, he must have been absolutely sweltering.

There was a small crowd near the barrier fence, too – fans, tourists, and the simply curious. A few of them eyed John with interest as he introduced himself to a brisk security officer near the point of entry, who eyed him suspiciously from under long, dark ringlets. She asked for his ID, held a brief conversation on a walkie-talkie, and then motioned him through. He heard the electronic click as someone in the crowd took his picture, probably just on the off-chance he turned out to be somebody interesting. How disappointing for them.

He meandered his way through the controlled chaos, eventually being directed to a goods lift that had been requisitioned for the day, and hitched a ride with a stack of cables to the roof. When he arrived, the cables were rescued by a weaselly-looking man who glared at John down his prominent nose.

“Help you?”

“Uh, Ben invited me to come take a look? Benedict, that is. Him.” John pointed. Ben was standing way over the other side, near the stone railings, and listening intently to a youthful, bestubbled man who was gesticulating forcefully with his hands. By the way everyone was giving them a respectful berth, the latter might just as well have been wearing a director’s hat.

“Oh,” the man said, glancing over and then back again. He looked more disgruntled than ever, although John suspected it was his usual condition, especially given the state of his marriage, and his affair with the equally unfriendly security officer John had passed earlier. “How nice for you.”

John ignored him and walked out onto a clear patch of roof, trying to stay out the way for the time being. It was a beautiful day, warm and uncharacteristically fine, and he stood there enjoying the sun and being able to observe the activity around him without needing to participate. He had to admit Ben’s workplace was more interesting than most – he was reminded of a hive of bees, each engaged in their own tiny private endeavour that contributed to a combined product far beyond their individual capacities.

“Hello, there. You must be Doctor John Watson.”

John looked up, startled, as a hand was extended towards him by a tall, thin man clad in a grey t-shirt and an incongruous striped scarf. He looked very familiar, but it took John a full five seconds to realise he needed to recalibrate the image wearing a frown and a Victorian frock-coat. It hadn’t helped that his voice bore the traces of a Northern accent that hadn’t been present in his character, either.

“Oh, hi. You’re the brother, aren’t you? Mark Gatiss. Sorry, you’re a bit different from on the telly.”

“Yes, I’m not acting today, of course. I’m the executive producer as well, so I get to stand around making a nuisance of myself instead.”

John attempted to look impressed, but probably wasn’t very successful. “So, how’s it all going?”

“The usual. Stop-start. I hope the weather holds for the afternoon.”

“It seems to take an awfully long time to get anything done around here.” The director had moved away from Ben, now, only to be immediately replaced by a girl armed with a make-up case and a can of hairspray.

He regretted it almost as he said it, but Mark only laughed. “Yes, it does. Everything has to be just so, and that does take a fair bit of time. I heard you weren’t too impressed.”

“Really?” For some reason it had never occurred to John that his opinions might have come up as a subject for discussion. “What else has he been saying?”

“Oh, not a lot, really. You must be a terribly _good_ doctor, though, to have made such an impression on Benedict.”

Mark appeared to be barely paying attention to the conversation, staring absently off into the distance, but one corner of his mouth was quirked up, and John was sure he knew perfectly well what John was to Ben, and was just enjoying winding him up. Still, there was no way John was about to concede a thing to someone so irritating.

“I am,” he said, shortly. A clear spot had finally arisen around Ben, and he noticed John, waving him over.

“Well, go on then,” Mark said, wearing a knowing little smile that made John long to punch him, except that he didn’t do that kind of thing anymore. “Try not to muss the hair.”

“Wasn’t sure you’d show up,” Ben said, looking delighted. He reached out to envelop John in a quick embrace, which was slightly alarming, but since Ben was a hugger by nature it wouldn’t necessarily appear anything out of the ordinary. “What do you think?”

“It’s more interesting than where I work. I’m not sure I want to know what you’ve been telling Mark, though.”

Ben immediately looked incriminatingly guilty. “Nothing _really_. It’s just that Mark is…”

“Yes, he’s married. And gay. I noticed. Although I don’t see how that makes a difference, but never mind. I’ll yell at you later.” John grinned.

“You going to stick around for a bit?”

“Until I get bored. And next week you can come round and watch me treat patients. I shouldn’t think they’d mind too much, do you?”

Ben smiled, and seemed about to say something when the man caught John’s attention. He’d just strolled out from a makeshift tent set up on another part of the roof a little way from the main filming site, and was now making his way over. Like Ben, he was dressed in Victorian garb, but in a charcoal black to Ben’s light grey. He carried a top hat under his arm, probably to protect it from any errant gusts of wind before filming started, and in his other hand he held a silver-tipped cane. There should have been nothing intimidating about his appearance; he looked to be only a couple of inches taller than John, but more slightly built, and his boyish face was wearing a gentle smile under dark, liquid eyes. However, the sight of him sent an instant chill through John, setting his teeth on edge and making it impossible for him to look away. He put an instinctive hand on Ben’s arm, regardless of how it might look.

“Who’s that?”

Ben looked at him, puzzled. “Uh, that’s Richard. Richard Brook.”

The name triggered a silent explosion somewhere behind John’s eyes. There was no pain, not yet, but he was suddenly assaulted with a flood of images, flashing in succession through his brain without meaning or context. Ben. Sherlock. Mark. Mycroft. Mrs Hudson. Irene. Richard. It was all there, but he didn’t understand. He didn’t _understand_.

“That’s not his real name,” he told Ben, urgently. Richard had stopped to talk to the director, which had delayed him.

“How on earth could you know that? Do you know him from somewhere?”

“No. I don’t know how I know. It just isn’t.”

“Well, yes, you’re right, of course, it’s a stage name. I think he said he changed it when he started working – a lot of people do. Some days I wish I’d gone through with it. His real name’s Jim…something.”

“Moriarty. Jim Moriarty.” John’s jaw was so tense he could barely get the words out.

“That’s it. He was saying it sounded too much like a cartoon villain, and…John, are you quite all right? You’re frightening me now.”

“Ben, he’s…he’s dangerous. Very, very dangerous. He wants you dead. You…we…I think we should leave. Now.”

“John, you’re confused about something. Maybe you…I don’t know, maybe your deductions have gone a bit haywire today. He’s _playing_ the villain for this episode, yes, you can probably tell that just by looking at him, but he’s a really lovely guy. You’d like him. Probably. It’s okay.”

“No,” John said loudly; too loudly. The pain had started up again, now, and the left side of his head was throbbing worse than ever before. He could already feel it beginning to encircle his skull, tightening in a broad, relentless band. “No! It’s not! It is not okay!”

People were staring at them now. Ben managed to look both concerned and absolutely mortified. He was holding John by the upper arms now in a vain attempt to soothe him. “John, please. You need to calm down. I know you haven’t been well. Just…maybe sit down a bit now. We’ll leave straight after, okay?”

Ben was only patronising him, of course; John knew that very well, but he couldn’t seem to raise the words to tell him so. His vision was beginning to tunnel in, and he thought, very possibly, that he was going to be sick. His legs abruptly buckled under him, and he clung onto Ben as he was gently lowered to the ground. He could hear voices above and around him, but they all seemed very faint and far away.

“God, is he all right?”

“I think he’s having a stroke.”

“Do we have the set medic? Molly?”

He lay on the hard concrete as the warmth of the midday sun bore down on him. The pain in his head was unbearable now. One hand clutched the side of his skull while his other held desperately onto Ben, wanting somehow, still, to protect him from Brook even though he knew it was hopeless. Ben was going to die, and John couldn’t do a thing, and it was somehow all his fault. _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say. Ben, _I’m so sorry_.

The last thing he remembered was the shock in Ben’s eyes, the fear in his voice.

“John!”

***

He came to sluggishly, as though the disparate parts of him were reawakening one by one, each on its own schedule. Someone had obviously moved him, and he was lying on something that was firmer than he would have liked, not his own bed, then, so he was probably in a hospital somewhere. This was confirmed by the growing realisation that he was equipped with what felt like a nasogastric tube, and a catheter. There was a slight pressure on one of his fingers that indicated the presence of an oximeter, but no respirator down his throat or monitor leads on his chest, so he could only conclude that, if nothing else, he was stable.

However, he could feel blankets around him, real blankets, that were of exactly the weight and softness he had at home, and which smelled of the laundry powder he always used, and his head was pillowed on something that had just the right amount of give. Maybe a really _nice_ hospital then, the kind where you could arrange to have your own things brought in without the nurses glaring at you. He clearly wasn’t paying for it then, wherever it was.

Narrowing his focus to his eyelids, he found that he could lift them, although it took considerable effort to do so. For some reason he wasn’t lying completely flat, but had been propped up at a slight angle, as though he had merely fallen asleep in a recliner. At first he saw only darkness, and felt the faint glimmers of panic, but then he became aware of a glow that quickly began to coalesce into colours and textures. It seemed to be evening now, not just because of the absence of light but something about the quality of the air, the stillness of it. As the room came into full focus he saw that he was indeed in a hospital bed, but it was stuck incongruously in what appeared to be someone’s living room. Even though he was still mostly unable to move, his head had been already tilted to the right, and he could see the reflection of the space in the rectangular-ridged mirror that hung a little way above and beside him.

Another minute, and he realised why the room felt so familiar; it was Baker Street, although it looked nothing like the room he’d left this morning, on the way to Barts. It was the Baker Street from his dreams, the one of colours and clutter, of dark-patterned wallpaper and shelves stacked to overflowing. The memories of it were coming back to him now. His gaze flickered over the mantelpiece, which was crowded with objects, but he saw that his skull was not amongst them. With the greatest difficultly, he tensed his muscles and succeeded in rolling his head over to the left, to confirm the existence of the rest of the room for himself. While his perspective was very different, the room appeared to be just as he remembered. So perhaps just another dream, then, but one very unlike the ones that had gone before. While the situation still made him slightly uneasy, at least the atmosphere of menace that had surrounded him in the past seemed to have magically lifted.

He became aware that there was music playing. It was the sound of a violin, first low and sweet, then high and yearning, no melody that he recognised, and yet he felt suddenly close to tears. He had never had a particular fondness for the instrument, and yet he felt somehow that as long as it continued to play, things would somehow be fine. _He_ would be fine. Shutting his eyes again, he let the music wash over him, and when it ended some time later he felt the dampness on his eyelashes. Understanding still eluded him, though. Maybe he wasn’t dreaming after all; maybe he was dead, or very nearly. Maybe this is what death felt like; dark and helpless and strangely lovely.

Then he heard the sound of footsteps coming from somewhere behind him, and a familiar figure walked across his field of vision, bow and violin in hand, and slumped into an armchair diagonally facing his bed. John’s heart leapt as he realised it was Ben, but although he had glanced straight at John, into John’s now wide-open eyes, he hadn’t appeared to register that John was actually _there_. Despite this, John’s first reaction was relief that Ben was fine. Perhaps a little tired and pale, but clearly alive and well.

A confused kind of hope began to creep into John’s heart; maybe he wasn’t dead after all, or dreaming, but something was still terribly wrong. Ben couldn’t play the violin, for starters, and either he’d managed to completely redecorate in a few hours or John had been out of touch with reality for a very long time. The last thing John remembered was lying on the roof. He remembered the pain in his head, the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, the hard, sun-warmed concrete beneath him, but he still didn’t know what had happened. Just how long had he been unconscious?

“Lestrade called me again today,” Ben announced to him, suddenly. His tone was conversational, although he had the same blank detachment in his eyes John had seen earlier. “He keeps throwing the stupidest things at me. As though I’d be interested just because someone’s missing another priceless heirloom or there’s a corpse in the Thames with its earlobes cut off. It’s so remarkably transparent, what he’s trying to do. And so incredibly dull.”

It was Ben’s voice, and yet it wasn’t – it was somehow sharper, colder. His features, too. The man in the chair went on talking, but John had stopped listening. Understanding was there now, very close. He could almost reach out and touch it, if only he could touch anything at all. His mind spooled backwards through the last few months, back to the day he had been walking through the park, the day he had met Mike. What had he been doing _before_ that? He’d been in Afghanistan, or so he thought, but that’s not what he remembered.

“It’s almost two now. I’ve kept you up again, haven’t I? I’ll get Steven to put you to bed properly in a minute.”

What he _remembered_ was being in the hallway at Baker Street, and that Mrs Hudson had been just fine, and then he’d hailed a cab and gone back as quickly as he could. Back to Barts, of course, where things began, and ended. His phone had rung. And he’d looked up and thought, _oh god_ … _Sherlock._

The calm, lingering fuzziness in his head abruptly cleared, to be replaced by a sharp, unwelcome clarity, tinged with panic. It all came back to him, then, in a line of hard-edged, implacable truths. He knew, now, finally. He understood. This was Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. Not Ben. Where was Ben? Was he here, too? Did he exist? Had he ever existed? John couldn’t afford to think about that now.

“Doctor Bell keeps saying some part of you is still taking in everything around you, everything you hear, everything you see, but I don’t really know if it that’s true. Normally you’d at least look annoyed with me for playing when you’re trying to sleep. If you _are_ trying to sleep. I suppose I don’t know that either.”

_Sherlock._

“Still, maybe some nights you do understand. I’m sorry, John. You must know that by now. I miss you.” His voice held the cadences of long repetition.

_Sherlock. Just stop it, okay? Stop this. I need you to pay attention._

John knew that what he really needed now was language. Consistent, meaningful communication was regarded as the crucial bridge to consciousness, and somehow he had to find a way across. He struggled to shape his lips and tongue, then, forcing frantic breaths across them. The sounds he made were ugly, wretched, barely recognisable as speech, but he persevered, discovering that he now had some limited control over his movements, as well. He finally knew something had worked when he saw Sherlock’s blankness come slowly, painfully alive, hope warring with trepidation.

_Sherlock!_

“John?”


	8. Chapter 8

John’s recovery progressed well over the following weeks, slowly and steadily. After a substantial amount of physical therapy, and a commensurate amount of swearing, he was able to get himself progressively unhooked from everything, which came as a relief. He learned to feed himself, dress himself, and get around again after a fashion, even though everything took a good deal longer than it used to. They had kept Steven and another relief aide on during the days to help him manage.

When the hospital bed was finally wheeled away, it seemed to mark the beginning of a true return to normality. However, given John’s ongoing mobility issues and the lack of an upstairs bathroom, it became obvious that Sherlock’s room was now the most practical place for him to sleep. He’d expected an argument over the matter, but surprisingly Sherlock had given in without much more than a snippy remark about how much more troublesome John was when he was conscious. Even then, Sherlock had refused to simply swap rooms; citing draughts and inconvenience, he merely ceded half of his bed to John, who was in no position to complain. However, they both seemed to adjust quickly enough. Considering how exhausted John invariably was by early evening, and how late Sherlock habitually slept, most of the time he might as well have been occupying the space alone anyway. Whenever Sherlock was there, it felt both incredibly strange and comfortingly familiar.

With his new, fledgling routines in place, John began to feel more like his old self again, anxious to re-engage with the world. While he had no clear memories of being confined to bed for three months, something in him seemed to restlessly crave the outdoors, and he insisted on daily excursions, rain or shine. He still needed a wheelchair to cover any significant distances, so going for a ‘walk’ had become something of a logistical exercise in itself, but thankfully he had all the time and assistance he could hope for.

Today John had just returned from the park, and Steven had set him up in the living room with a cup of tea. Sherlock had declined to accompany them, having been engrossed in online research on some minor forgery case.

However, now that John was back, Sherlock had risen from the table and was gathering up his things, shrugging on his jacket, preparing to leave. It had been like this for a while; once it was clear that John was in reasonable possession of all his faculties and expected to make a good recovery, Sherlock hadn’t seemed to be around as much as he might have expected.

“Where are you off to now?”

“Oh, out. To the shops, maybe.”

While Sherlock seemed unmistakeably relieved to have John back, there was still an ongoing caution to the way he treated him, which was both touching and annoying. Much as John appreciated not having to deal with Sherlock at his petulant worst, more than anything else he wished things could go back to the way they’d been before.

“You’ve been avoiding me an awful lot lately.”

Sherlock’s answer was a little too slow. “No I haven’t. We need…something. I’ve forgotten exactly what.”

“Then you’ll have a difficult time getting it, won’t you? Sherlock, when are you going to explain what happened to me? I know Moriarty’s dead, and everything’s fine, but not how I ended up…” he trailed off, and tried again. “You know you’re going to have to tell me eventually. It might as well be now, while I can’t get up and go after you. Not for very far, anyway.”

John smiled, but Sherlock only gave him a speculative glance and looked away again. It was clear he had been anticipating the conversation for a while – it wasn’t the first time John had asked – and not looking forward to it. However, this time he did stop and slowly unbutton his suit jacket.

“What do you remember?” he said.

“You. On the roof. Speaking to you on the phone. You were saying something about being a fake, something ridiculous. I didn’t believe you. Then you stopped, and…” John blinked, the memory still making him anxious and uneasy, even though Sherlock was right there in front of him. “I saw you. I saw you…fall. I don’t really remember much after that.”

Even the last part was hazy; when he thought back, John’s only clear recollection was a snapshot image of Sherlock, framed against the backdrop of the building, his arms outstretched as though he were flying, and the sheer visceral horror of it, the sickening lurch in his pit of his stomach. Then there was nothing until the memory of walking through the park, and meeting Mike. Again. Sherlock nodded, his hands nervously brushing his jacket down, although it looked as impeccable as always. He came over to the settee and sat beside John, but didn’t look at him. John’s tea steamed away on the table, untouched.

“I had it all worked out,” Sherlock said. “Fake my own death, disappear abroad for a while, let Mycroft deal with the rest of Moriarty’s gang in peace. Then it turns out your head isn’t quite as hard as I might have imagined.”

“ _You_ did this to me?”

“A cyclist came past as you were running over, knocked you down. Just so you’d be shaken up, distracted, so you wouldn’t look too closely at the body on the ground. The dead one.”

“The one that was supposed to be you. And you’d planned...all of it.”

“Yes. With Molly’s help, of course. And Mycroft’s.”

John knew he should have been angry, but after everything that had happened he couldn’t seem to muster up anything stronger than resignation. “So _they_ knew all about your great plan. But you were going to let _me_ think you were dead.”

“Yes.” Sherlock was looking carefully past him, towards the kitchen. “It was the best way. Because if you believed it, everyone else would, too.”

“For how long?”

“As long as necessary."

“Okay,” John said, although it was very far from okay, and he didn’t even want to think about how things might have gone after that. Believing Sherlock was dead, grieving for him, blaming himself for not having been able to talk him down safely from the roof. Only to have Sherlock swoop back in one day to grace John with his presence once more, no doubt expecting instant forgiveness into the bargain. It was a coldly callous proposition that only Sherlock would think he could get away with. Judging from Sherlock’s expression, something of John’s thoughts must have shown in his face.

“You were in danger,” Sherlock added, by way of appeasement. “You. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. I was…I was only trying to protect you.”

“Yeah, that worked out well, didn’t it?” John said, knowing it was unworthy of him, but grimly satisfied to see Sherlock flinch all the same. Only now was his anger really beginning to stir, but he quickly tamped it back down again, because he knew Sherlock had already suffered enough for his sake, however unwillingly. It wasn’t even the accident John was angry about; it was that Sherlock hadn’t seen fit to trust him in the first place. However, he was in no mood to explain. “Then what happened?” he asked, as gently as he could.

“You collapsed at the scene. A combination of shock and head trauma. I thought you would be fine – you were seen to immediately, of course, and taken to hospital. Then after a day or two we heard you weren’t recovering the way you should have been. You were awake, and you could focus your eyes, and when someone spoke to you, occasionally you would respond. You would reach for things, and smile, and frown, and sometimes even laugh. But not much more than that. Doctor Bell called it a minimally conscious state, but what he really meant is that you just weren’t _there_ anymore. Or didn’t want to be.”

“I don’t think I’m quite that stubborn.” John tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it.

“I was going to leave London as soon as I knew you were all right. Mycroft wanted me to leave anyway, because it wasn’t safe. He tried to tell me he’d handle everything, that there was nothing I could do, that I would only get myself killed if I stayed. Which proved to be quite wrong on his part. The papers still thought I was dead, and nobody pays much attention to one more homeless person drifting around from place to place. It only took me a month, and I found them. All of them. With Moriarty gone, they hadn’t the wit or the foresight to leave.”

Before, John had been fairly sure that Sherlock had never taken a human life, regardless of circumstance, but now there was an icy edge to his voice John had never heard before.

“And where are they now?”

“There were three others. Two of them are in prison now.”

The omission filled the space between them, unspoken.

“So then it was safe for you to come out of hiding. All right. But how did I end up back here?”

“There was nothing they could do for you in hospital that couldn’t be done equally well at Baker Street, and several experts claimed a familiar environment might be good for you. So I had Mycroft take care of it. It was the least he could do. Besides, you know Mrs Hudson took my skull.”

Despite John’s irritation at Mycroft’s part in creating the entire situation, the knowledge of everything that had been done during his incapacity had gone some way towards making up for it. It was Mycroft who had ensured John received around-the-clock nursing care in shifts, medical equipment and monitoring, specialists brought in, everything a minimally conscious man could want.

“So what you’re saying is you had me brought back here for _company_. Even though I…wasn’t quite myself.”

“It was fine. I can’t say I even noticed, most of the time,” Sherlock said, and John glared at him for form’s sake, but he wasn’t fooled. He’d seen from Sherlock’s appearance alone how much strain the past months had put him under. While Sherlock obviously hadn’t done much of the actual _work_ of looking after John, he could just as easily have left him in a nice hospital or care facility somewhere and gotten on with things. In fact, it was exactly what John would have expected from him, if the question had ever arisen. Something eminently logical, practical and devoid of sentiment. Instead Sherlock had chosen to keep him close by, like a constant reminder of his own failure. It didn’t make a great deal of sense, but John felt that demanding further explanations would serve no useful purpose, and would only pain them both, so he chose to let it go.

***

It took a few more weeks before John finally told Sherlock about Ben, and about the existence he’d dreamed up for himself, albeit a carefully edited version of it. By this time John was more or less independent again, although he still had headaches, tired easily, and his old limp had returned. In the meantime Sherlock had relented enough to take on a handful of active cases, but nothing that took him very far from home or kept him very late. For the time being, the rent would be paid regardless.

John had forgiven Sherlock by now, for the most part, but the aftermath of the accident had left him emotionally fragile, and after all the revelations had properly sunk in there had still been a fair bit of shouting. However, it proved impossible for John to maintain a decent head of rage for any length of time when Sherlock bore the brunt of it without even trying to defend himself. There was clearly nothing John could say to him that hadn’t thought of already, and he was just waiting for John to catch up. As always.

Through it all they had continued sharing Sherlock’s bed, regardless, simply because it was still impractical for John to return to his own. Although again, that was part of the story, but not all of it. By tacit agreement the bedroom had become a place of sanctuary, where the frustrations of the day were set by for the morning. While they slept chastely, side by side, occasionally John would lay a hand on Sherlock’s arm in the middle of the night, or feel Sherlock’s leg brushing against his, and it was somehow reassuring to know he was there.

Some mornings, though, when John woke to find Sherlock lying beside him, his thoughts would turn to Ben, and what it would have been like to have had him there instead, with his fond eyes and careless affections. John reluctantly understood by then that he could only have made everything up: his own deductive skills, Ben, the play, the television show, the all-too-familiar-looking cast-mates. It had only been John’s mind trying to make sense of things, a case of spinning fantasies out of reality. Still, sometimes he ached for Ben and the memories of his easy smile, his warmth.

Despite the impossibility of it, something in John still held fiercely to the belief that at least part of what he’d experienced had been real, logic and common sense be damned. He’d verbally sketched the outlines of his ‘friendship’ with Ben, trying to sound as rational as he could, while Sherlock listened closely, absorbing the information in silence. Then they spent the following hour in front of the laptop, John sitting to one side, while Sherlock typed in search after search on his behalf.

“It couldn’t be more obvious, John,” Sherlock said, with unusual patience. “Not only did he look just like me, you even said that when you met him he was playing the creature out of _Frankenstein_ , who was put together out of parts from everywhere. Which is exactly what your mind was doing, trying to piece itself back together to create a coherent whole. And with an absurd name like that, you have to admit he could only be imaginary…what?”

“Oh, nothing,” John said, not quite managing to suppress a glimmer of amusement. “You’re right, of course. Ridiculous name. Not something sensible like…Sherlock.” He wasn’t even going to start in on Mycroft.

Sherlock gave him a disdainful look, but continued. “Besides which, the play running at the Olivier when you returned from Afghanistan was _The Comedy of Errors_ , and Mike’s never been anywhere near Harrow, but you knew that already. And none of the people you remember from my namesake television series – which I’m sure was _extraordinary_ , by the way – show up on any search engine, not as actors anyway. Except for Richard Brook, of course, but only because Moriarty put him there.”

“Yes, I know, Sherlock. But…”

“And while the writer Doyle did indeed pen a few obscure books a hundred years ago, his detective was called Adrian Sherrinford, and his plots were patently ludicrous.”

“You mean you’ve actually read his books?”

“Half of one. It was a long time ago.”

“Right. Fine, Sherlock. I know. I know he can’t have been real. None of them were real. I made it all up. But…it _felt_ as though he was. I remember him just as well as I remember you.”

“What I don’t understand is why it’s so important to you.”

John studied Sherlock’s intent face; so alike, yet so different. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. It wasn’t something he’d wanted to dwell on, but the conclusions were obvious all the same. John hadn’t just dreamed he’d met Ben; he had dreamed himself into an entire relationship with Ben. Everything they’d done together, everything they’d been to each other, had only been a reflection of John’s subconscious, and had shown all too clearly what he wanted, deny it as he might. What he still wanted, despite everything. He looked away then, embarrassed.

“You miss him,” Sherlock said, frowning. “But he was _me_. You said so.”

“He _looked_ like you,” John said. “But he wasn’t like you.”

“What was he like, then?”

“Just…completely not you. He was…sunnier. Open. He smiled more.”

“Like this?”

“No,” John said, solemnly. “That’s just terrifying. And it wasn’t really any of that, anyway. You know I can’t compete with that giant brain of yours, but in my…other life, I could. And Ben respected that. He admired it.”

“John, you know I do…respect you. And admire you. Perhaps not, strictly speaking, for your intelligence, but you do have many other redeeming qualities.”

“Yes, thank you Sherlock, that’s very flattering.”

“So my question remains.”

That was the time John really should have had the sense to walk away. It wasn’t the first back-handed compliment he had received from Sherlock, after all. But somehow it triggered a combination of everything that had been affecting him; his residual anger at Sherlock’s plan to fake his own death, frustration at his own too-slow progress, and above all, the longing he still felt whenever he let himself remember his time with Ben. Who wasn’t real. Who had never, could never, have been real. His bitterness drove him into blunt, brutal honesty.

“What was he like? He was in love with me, Sherlock, all right? I know you might be above such things, but he bloody well wasn’t. I lied to you. We weren’t just sharing a flat, like this, we were…together, for a time, and it was good. It felt good. I was happy. And then I was back here, and I’m glad you’re alive, and that I’m not a vegetable, and life goes on, but yeah. Sometimes I miss him. I really do.”

“You mean you actually…loved him. In the same way.”

“Yes, of course I did,” John snapped, gathering himself together and reaching for his new, much-despised walking stick. He’d just begun to shift his weight onto it when Sherlock caught his arm, pulling him gently but firmly back down into the chair. After a small, token effort at resistance, John finally turned towards him.

“I have been reliably informed,” Sherlock said softly, when he had John’s attention, “that in some areas I might be thought of as quite…spectacularly ignorant.” John saw his mouth working for a moment, his lips pressed tightly together, before he spoke again. “Maybe there are things I just don’t…didn’t understand.”

“Yeah, well, now you do. Mystery solved. Congratulations.” John’s voice was unavoidably harsh.

Sherlock moved closer, then, tentatively edging into John’s space, clearly waiting for some kind of response, but for a moment John was too caught up in his anger and humiliation to care. Then one of Sherlock’s hands reached for his, really no different from the times it had happened at night, when they were both half-asleep, times when John accepted the gesture as both comfort and apology. However, darkness was one thing, and daylight quite another. John let Sherlock’s fingers entwine with his, searching Sherlock’s face, not quite sure what to believe.

“If he were real,” Sherlock said. “I might even envy him.”

Then he leaned in and kissed John, slowly, carefully, as though he might yet shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Oh,” John muttered, more embarrassed than ever, as Sherlock pulled away. He studied Sherlock’s face again, trying to confirm the truth of what had just happened. Maybe the things John longed for hadn’t been quite as foolish as he’d imagined. Maybe some small fragment of Ben really had been in there, hidden from view all along. The thought left him feeling slightly dazed.

“Perhaps you might consider starting again, John,” Sherlock said, his tone light, but his eyes still dark and serious. “Only this time with someone a little less…imaginary.”

“I suppose that could be worth a try.”

This time they drew together with more certainty, but it was no less sweet. As Sherlock’s mouth pressed against his, the memory of kissing Ben seemed to pass over them, ghost-like, meeting Sherlock at the edges but never quite merging. While the two of them might have been almost entirely different in their respective characters, John had to admit that Sherlock, too, had his own redeeming qualities.

And while John could never entirely forget Ben, he could only hope that all his fantasies might, in time, even be surpassed by reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> However, I discovered I wasn't able to let go of John and Ben that easily, so I've also written them a quite different ending [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/557772). Just because I had to *g*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for 'In His Image'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/577744) by [numberthescars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/numberthescars/pseuds/numberthescars)




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